My love wouldn’t be my competitor in a car-race,
who would speed up with his brain-pedal, me to outpace,
or would toot behind me to wait up his bluntly lumbering thoughts.
My love would sit in me, and would drive me,
but before that he would attentively study my motor,
and the way my break works, how the gear-wheel jerks,
and he would grin, if I’d stall my rotor,
since he would know why my lamplight smokes a wee.
In return I would carry him with all his burdens, carry him until the end,
if he’d get tired on the road, he could rest in me, to a halt my way I would wend.
My love’s ear would be beech wood’s tarnished leaf:
it’d be refreshing to whisper in it’s shadow my secret, my grief.
His ear would be a microphone and a fair-sized tape-recorder –
he’d record what I say so that he could replay it,
he’d delete the hurting words and keep my one-off laugh-fit.
His tongue, as a buzzing bee, would hum my music in his mouth,
and if with my kisses of dry loaves I would feed his mouth,
he still wouldn’t desire another woman’s stodges.
My love’s eyes would be pure microfilms,
which would video-record in a black and white silent-film the dazzling and gibbering world, –
in the eyes of my love wouldn’t matter the colors and words, whirled
and chirping, beyond that I could see it,
the good and bad, simply, without deceit.
My love’s eye would be space-telescope and microscope, diminutive and magnifying glass,
and we’d be strikingly each-others scent in each others noses:
the soul’s seething-pot would stir-up all the savour and spice.
My love’s hug would be like an armchair – heavy, protective and tender as the roses, –
still, I would sway him into sleep and it would be he that would swing in me.
My food would be the pretzels of his palms, his the honey of my chest’s beehive,
for dessert we’d digest the satiating words of the books,
and we’d drink each-others half-dry tears till
the last drop flows away.