When the twilight maple rustles,
when your mouth is alight,
I’ll come.
Though not knowing season or year,
or the world into which I come,
though not having found in my horoscope
a single star promising I would come,
still I hear – deep in arteries
throbbing: the mute maple will rustle
and cold mouth catch fire.
 

*  *  *

To swim far, the sea was too cold.
Night air with memories of summer still warm and loud,
a salt star trembled in my palms,
until it was absorbed back into the wave.

Warm my hands. I know our house is warm.
Warm my hands.
No, the star left no mark on them.
I only looked too long at how it shimmered in my palms.
That’s all – maybe – not really all.

To swim far, the water was too cold.
I swam far.
 

*  *  *

Caress singes the skin,
word sets language afire . . .
I give you back to your ancient sea:
flickering in the depths the scent of amber.

Not much difference – whether to invite fire
or to burn.