You want to say
every pretty thing in your heart.
Adjectives, bendings,
ribbons, being drowned.
The soil opening.
The inner nut, the last breath,
the paroxysm of sex and sleep.
Leaf by leaf to uncurl the heavens,
expose the root,
spread the wing,
everything that fills your head,
hurts your soul,
makes you say hello
and tremble touching a hand.
And feeling, tasting,
washing everything.
When the plain surface
opens its eyes,
then, and then,
you will find something
that belongs to you.
Worth saying.
Lips pressing on lips,
leaving a name behind.