Third Migration, Second Series II

The difference is spreading, said Gertrude
Stein. But there is nothing but difference
There is you and your love and your lover
and you; there is the eroticism

of her shirt, her skin, against her body
and your mind being on her, always

Being so close to something, like this
the body of language, or time, or her —
her prime opening out in her, more
generous than the red warmth of hibiscus —

opens that gap in me that doesn’t know me
that forgets everything I do

It’s a mouth, which though mute, speaks
the sentence I’m always about to hear