I taste

of things that have no illusions 
                                                       of existing
infinite lights 
of cats and breath
of the past that holds on to tissue in
             illnesses

of heat             yes!      heat       that
comes from the center of somewhere or 
existed              all along          it 
was only waiting for June

of fabrications in my head
that laughter gives        a w a y
of teeth nibbling on cheese
of fish once a week

of loving          of harsh
     words               words

of waiting for the next one yes
                                                                       the next one
the next one
                                                      the                                          next
and not waiting at all

of Spanish words that Saturn can hear
of the dance where I am led                where I lead
               of my mother’s birth 
               of my father’s death

of a few countries and their cathedrals 
of the pain of others    and 
             their wrinkles revering the sun
of rainbows and darkness

of dust and chemicals 
of seemingly filtered water
and piano songs floating away on rafts
made up of tears and overthinking

of prehistoric cells ready for goodbyes            and 
new ones too that want to abandon this             (human)
ship and create elsewhere

of love un(conditional) 

              you 

I wonder what your tongue claims                      …