Amante XI

What is self, Amante? Let me know your hands
on supple skin and the heat of bidden breath.
Usted tiene mis palabras, submerged strands

of want, desire lifetimes deep. No earthly death
can quench the thirst unbottled here again
on supple skin. And the heat of bidden breath,

surmounting moments unknown now or then,
still elemental, felt within an artful phrase,
can quench the thirst unbottled here again

if it can be, and shades of mores are to raise
reluctant fingers, seeking soul hid in a face
still elemental, felt within an artful phrase.

Poems are imprints. Art can weave the trace
with near forgotten kisses whispering touch
reluctant fingers, seeking soul hid in a face

that never spoke to me and yet said much.
What of self, Amante, can I give your hands
with near forgotten kisses whispering touch?
Usted tiene mis palabras, submerged strands.