---

Your hair is soft
white as dead grass
whispering, full of the eyes of old women

full of sighs
and hissing, the sea of your voice, its long
skinny arm
pleading with the sand, the tiny shells.

you wait by the church doors, all fringe
and rags, your hands are beggars
they cry from the steps
as i pass

left
like a treasure on a mountain, a dagger
honed in wind
high above the plain, you
tilt, as

one
by one, the clouds
rise from the sea
and cross
over trapani...

the wind flicks a tongue in the eucalyptus
incestuous
incestuous
the fan glitters the hill

hooded mummer, wound
in fog
clasped like a lover in his secret flesh

slowly your mind
spins
out of the gray rock
i follow you through a maze...
you draw me like the thought of my own death.

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