Words are for me what that man is to ‘Nita.
They lift me into the upper atmosphere
where I out-dazzle stars,
careless of duty and
all that recalls me to earth.
Yet even words I hold briefly,
and cannot posses.
Long and short; nouns and verbs;
written or spoken; words burst from
bodies that, once given life,
must in every moment rejoice and feel.
Words heat me up like an August afternoon in Aoulef,
where far east of the dessert oasis, a dry throat quiets me
and I passively give up my mind to become a stage
for tales that quicken your heart and put sweat on your brow.
Yet words escape after a minute because
to address a new line, I dispatch the last, letting
word after word call my attention, my ardor, my ave;
and cause me to soar and dip like eagles gold and bald, to
embrace the grace that speaks to me through all types of fog.
That same grace reminds me that though words often rush
and turn on the roundabout in my mind,
words cannot replace the life they recall,
nor the one they conjure; so with words,
let us part.
Forgive me, Hugo, I am no ‘Nita. Rather I am
the fire to catch quicker when we meet again.