Licinus

Yesterday, Carlissa, what a day it was out on your porch the CD player and yellow paper, you wrote like a pen and I with the ink covered five legal pads in poetry of erotic nature, and in sipping our piña coladas, I heard you laugh like the feathers of the toucan. My hand was paper under your lips, a poem or a skein of writing, my mind grew calm in your intelligence and I had to stay seated—you know how it is—well, the attention I gave showed too plainly in my middle. And I left your perfume and the kiss of your vowels for this overheated room of smoke, turned on the lamp, but when I wished it, would Hypnos come? No. He laughed from the shade like a little fuck, engendering the porch, the bird and the cups of words that I sipped as you spoke, and again the toucan’s beak admonished me. So I took leave of the sheets and took out another sheet and wrote these lines of my missing your lucid laughter the talk you made me talk, what a day it was, Carlissa, before the curtains shut us up, these lines must rejoin in our hands and till then I suffer to compose one syllable of your face: the bloom of your tongue leaves me speechless.