My friends have wings and talons.
The eyes of cats, goats,
children’s faces,
deep-rooted souls.
They sing in choruses,
or keep their stillness inside boxes,
which I leave in silence
to the pages of their letters.
I don’t do well with gossips,
sportsmen,
actors who never leave their roles,
or buddies running races.
Those friends have their friends
and places.
My choices are tigers, musicians,
those who sing inside themselves,
and set tables for other strangers,
join a silent figure gazing at a shore.
Or seeing the parade of people pausing,
wave greetings from their door.
Who speak of dreams they had last night,
how the flower opened up its bloom,
the cataclysms of their latest love.
The sorrow that remains
from what their hearts obliterate,
or the glances that had them
fall in love.
My friends being what they are,
are awfully, perversely,
sweetly,
the salt inside the sea,
water holding light.
Lips that say kiss me on their skin,
pray their prayers hearts open,
or mix stars up inside me,
who from that point on
I love.