Inside its voice only festivals could be heard.
Sometimes rooms are filled with emigrants
to increase the vascular cells of disembarkation.
I stand up and make my way to your bed
to find you sleeping in hexagonal limbo;
a comb stuck in the moon; bird turns into
a mirror to contain the brightness of this planet.
I wake up; in order to make sound I stare at
your beauty. I turn you onto your stomach
and enter from behind. You raise your arse
so I may saturate the evening. Deep.
Preoccupation with your breathing, pluvious,
Sometimes obnoxious, but always oceanic,
Always, in spite of conflicts, very polynesian.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule