Hasso Krull/Mirjam Tally
The month of May, the green; look around, there you are, riding in the
forest amidst the wet boughs. In the wee wee hours, before the dawn of day; hark, it is
springtime, something to be seen under the trees, little smoke arising. Wanderers,
proceeding to Egypt
Boldly I came to you into the dressing room. Ostrich feathers.
Half of them authentic feathers.
Another half. Peacock feathers.
There was something the season wanted,
though the ways and the woods smelt sweet
the breath of lips that panted
the pulse of grass at your feet
Something the season really desired -- a missing link.
In spite of the sweet
lingering smell of the woods, haze on the country roads.
The snake-like grass throbbing under your feet.
Trying to pick you up. I couldn't.
Your left leg overwhelmingly heavy.
Trying to pick the right leg. I couldn't.
Your right leg overwhelmingly heavy
according to symmetry.
And the most and the worst of this is
that neither is most to blame
if you have forgotten my kisses
and I have forgotten your name.
Skin-coloured tights, skin-coloured limbs.
Skin-coloured cheek hand toe lips.
Skin-coloured crotch. Skin-coloured hair