You’re more beautiful than the wind, Crazy Nose.
That is who shaped your nose . . . the wind?
Because of your eyes
you should live in a white-washed house
painted with color.
I should bring you flowers
from cliffsides hanging above the Sea,
. . . because of your eyes.
The night could make me turn to you for blanket
and drink your honey-tea breath to be warm.
And listen to your words to be full . . .
. . . You are the pipe I smoke after dinner for contentment.
. . . The tomato skin I kiss for nutrition.
. . . The vegetable I eat for refreshment,
as though I did when I was three,
or ate when I was eighteen
after an exhausting night of LSD contemplations.
I look on religious books, I am mistaken.
You raise my downward glance to the angle of your nose.
You cast my brow unfurled:
my mind now is desert plain.
Ah ha! I see. Horizons begin again and again!
The masons of Cuzco would be proud to see
this piece of you that’s like man, earth, and god,
and building, and temple of breath
perched above a civilization of love and knowledge.
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