Your mind is to taste all nightmares.
Your body in charge of fond dreams.
Open your icebox, your white bra.
Open the two clean lungs
like you push open the shutters.
Knock the drumbeats into your guts.
Freeze the letters in a fridge.
I only have eleven lovers.
I only have poetry, this one lover.
My darling bathing in soft cheese:
for you, I can even join the Party.
When we are in love,
we don’t do anything legal.
As you breathe out Chit pa de,
a bird pecks them away.
You write about me, I about you.