LAMENTO 2. Comments

2.
Man by the water, wind on the water, that the man thinks
that the wind is a hand, he turns his cheek to the sun,
don't look into the sun, the man thinks, and he looks into the sun,
then the man is in the surf,

long black hair floating in the air, as if a bed was turned down
after all those years, has that scratch been in the sheet for all those years,
if only we had, if only we had each other always, a hair in the air above
the man by the water, the sun on his shirt, as if his chest is on fire,

the man who sings in the surf, his hand from his chest to his head,
pulls a black hair from his mouth, ever longer, as if he from
the inside, as if he unravels himself like a woollen dress, ever smaller, himself
inside out, until he's naked, until his knees in the water, bent double,
her dress, he sings, her dress and the man,

hunched over he twists his hands as if he's wringing something's neck,
his hands twist the air into the shape of a bottle, as if that bottle
has washed up, as if with that bottle he can return to the spot, to the hand
that threw the bottle, that first time, her dress, the mouth she
pushed up as if to the sun, completely, from head to toe, pushing herself up,

him by his tongue, biting on his tongue - the last sun on the water
smouldering - so beautiful we are still always reminded of it - orange crease
in the water - him biting on his tongue pulled into the water, he her
with his forehead - so beautiful that we will always be reminded - he pushing
her with his forehead into the water - the last orange shard -
the dress and the pants and the shirt in the surf. As a hand

across a cheek that is no longer there the wind brushes over the water.
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