I WILL SAVE YOU BUCKETFULS OF MONSOON

Give me your hand

And I will show you the exact line where we met.

Next to the mount of Venus,

Owner of the lower appetite,

And the grid of Jupiter,

Wielder of bolts and giving

Birth to Bacchus on his thigh.

That was where we met;

On a closed eye,

And searching Hands.

On the sacred navel

Next to the profane forests of spring.

The gypsies knew our sins preordained

And looked at our hands like a piece

Of map – a large cross where the

Sin may lie, planted by some god of mischief.

But I knew better where we met:

In the caves of Boreas

Owner of rain-winds

And Nikta’s breast, the endless night.

And there, I will save you bucketfuls of

Monsoon. To wash our hands

Of the smell of ripe bananas,

And the gods’ and gypsy’s own

Touch.