Machine petit a

  • Basoalto, the name matters. Neruda under the covers.
  • “To an orphan after mulling her indecent Black Friday Proposal”
  • He to whom you came as an orphan is a figure of flesh no longer of a fish or a lobster. You can’t name anything any more even to your heart now. To whose gaze you came like the waves of your hair it is to him, the sea that is your-coming-to-season, a heart fancying the joy of roundness, a snake making its tail to match with a meal.
  • But all that now without him conjuring a serpent, or Neftali trembling in his flesh, or ricardo, or reyes; yet, all the same, because he is free, could just well be his boots free to take off, to humble the tightrope along the Andes: the mountain dances with the clouds, the clouds lending a milieu to a clothesline, the clothesline feeling good as a flower basking in thin sunlight, can quiver still, all quiet and easy, like Valery, like Heidegger, or Levinas perhaps, like Breton whose words can make love,
  • like Blanchot whose right to die makes up for machines that alienate his hair, unlike yours, go figure: wavy, rotund, fearless, and self-possessed like the sea choosing her climate, her urchins and mermaids, her dolphins, her elements, even then, her wastes.
  • Still, not much if you can take a shore to own, a tourist to keep, a spider to bring you good news from the caves; from afterlife holding the dead with bated breath, from rivers and streams; mouth to mouth, your skin against mine, foot to foot, silence to silence,
  • ah, for a full woman that you are who love fleshly apple baked in a hot moon.
  • I should add, from croon to croon.

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