He always dreamt of a source
and the source was here
he dreamt of the profusion
of smooth petals
on days of festivities
and the petals were here
for his eyes for his hands

He never ceased to scrutinize
the mysterious wedding
of earth and water in swamps
and now he was contemplating
the magnificent evidence
of pure essence and upheaval

He often sat in his youth
on the edge of a wet slit
observing its quivering
its lively movements its traces
and now he was leaning over
the mother of slits
listening for the rumbling

He often caressed
the skin of fruits
with fingers full of desire
but here the pulp was his
rather than the skin
in its glorious complicated
abundance

Pub. May 2001

DRC