Ilya Kaminsky's "Paul Celan"
He writes towards your mouth
with his fingers.
In the lamplight he sees mud, wind bitten trees,
he sees grass still surviving this hour, page
stern as a burnt field:
Light was. Salvation
he whispers. The words leave the taste of soil
on his lips.
Darren Delfosse's "Morning Buds"
She paints down your nose
with her breasts.
In the morning fog she envisions earth's crust,
fried eggs, she smiles at honeydews floating in seascapes, bed
hard as a stern lecture:
Sex was. Seduction
she breathes. The language moistens the lipstick,
pouty and sublime.
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