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Constantine Severin
VIII
bound by this sky as the leaves themselves
I find myself quiet and serene
a body of light silence and plant sap
of vibrating music and flower
I am the shadow between two senses
the adjective inside the wind of old stars
with letters eroticized by wounds’ petals
I love you, thousand-folded blood of ours
pollen of my breath
being away from you my verse fractures
along the rope of return
my hand through which the hour’s marrow flows
descends into your celestial vowels’ fire
like those nests pressing
their precise ivy
from these lines of thought