I have a permanent thirst
and craving for a river
that knows very well the braids
of its delta.
It has no knowledge of Adam
and understands nothing
from the Bible of wetness
but the verse of the seventh swan.
It found its lord in this
and realized that it, itself, was the lord's desired element.
The verse is a watery virtue.
Its sweetness means that
an elegant creature of salt
is dancing devoutly between the waves .
The Lord didn't tell me
to put my hand around her waist,
but he was peeping through
the moon holes.
I think he loved it like me
because it was haunted by
the Meningitis of kisses .
The kiss is a furrow in the lips--
the spring breath from it
its casual Arabic existence,
and bleeding is a young lady
who speaks French fluently,
better than any authentic Francophone
or any European, strangled
with the entrails of a priest
on a pure collar,
its Arabism not yet dried up.
(Poem from the poetry book
Clay Tablets In Nietzsche's Cave)