NOCTURNE No. 7
The Road to Granada
The earth is sensual,
I could fall to it,
rub my many parts on roots,
bury myself in the mound
of a man's chest,
My woman's wanting . . .
Smell lemon,
the parched grass weaving fabric
on my spine,
the heat of the dried river bed,
the rocks of fire burning to fushia fury.
Figs and bananas hang
teasing my sensors,
they are pornographic,
obscene.
Desire fits me like a many-colored robe.
Under the biblical Olive,
I want you, Moses.
We will die here, upon tablets,
eat of our own flesh upon flesh.
The sacred mountain beyond the turn
is an eagle.
Hard in the gray mist,
keeper of the Kingdom.
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