Under the skin of an oak, in its emaciation,
my heart is also naked, stripped of bark,
it tests the white calligraphy of oblivion,
cuts the veins of desire already in a drought.
Under the dark skin, the driest light,
I open the channels for your fast-flowing rivers,
and follow the footsteps of your efflorescence
through the paths of a soul no longer mine.
I’ll orient myself to bird and sun
so that my voice is warm and loud.
I won’t reveal your names.
I’ll write an empty concave poem
so you can pour into it the honey in your eyes.
I’ll wait for your rain without moving.
Immerse me in your calm waters.
I’ve walked towards your high twilights
like moss that decorates
the forgotten crevices of a wall.
Make me your hollow bowl of love, your nursery,
plant peaceful oaks in my heart.