At night, it sleeps headless
on pillows of black feathers
and shivers from pleasure and from pain

In the day it sleepwalks across
rooms and cities miming its own
animation

Sometimes you  hear the sound of it shattering
against a pavement
or an obdurate sky
(when it turns ceramic under the hands
of some cheap Midas)

How will you ever understand it ? -
the pulsing vein
the known and the unknown lumps
this temple of disposable time

Travel it, the poet says, as in
"to love your body is to travel in it"
but the poet is wrong

You crash into the body
because it has no landing ground
because to love the body is to crash

When you kiss
a body you are licking wounds
from crashes past and future

When you stroke
a body, you tattoo
your red, swollen goodbyes

When you strip
a body, you want to strip it
of more than clothes and skins

How will you ever undestand it? -
the body is the opposite
of reason

But sometimes when you hold a body
you hold the reason for everything
you hold

the great shaker where 
the ciphers of obscenity and poetry mix:
the spicy stardust of your longing

Tomorrow it will disappear
don't try follow it - 
the body has  the last word

that is
a heartful of ground spice
to sprinkle in your hair like the finest ashes