The lips. How could they be mistaken for a zebra?
The eyebrows, the undulant firmness.
There are no white spaces
where blackness waves its serenity.
There are no doors like eternity’s
But the zebra’s your lips that summon
An entire savanna. How could I be wrong?
The heat of a December day leads me near the rump of the world.
There are no roads, no cycles of rain and death,
The foil is the zebra. How could one put it right?
Of sight, thought can summon things from the void:
Climates, heavens, fossils, the scent, the wild flowers,
The bones of ages wrapped in the living voice of silence,
The darkness of death, the pride of perfection.
Where noise captures the folds of serenity
A zebra insulates the sanity of words.
They become rosy cheeks, the lips are an invitation,
The tight leggings, a pair of inflatables,
The sweet salinity of the main part,
The tiny nasal proclamation of irritable lucidity.
Inside a metal transport, these thoughts perspired.
A lady tackled the boning racket of perspectives.