I, the irritated aborigine,

stalk my flank with your appetite, with a hair of bulrush

as permanent as your map’s wind.

The two coined Berlin, and the pupil

in the roulette,

I mark your history and ambition

with a foe, melting as the wedding night

does in a lover’s hands, and a mutation

for house arrest.

I speak in brine and barks, and I whip

with keys; a resolute tempest

like the dark moons

of the heart, eclipsing amorous

pawns, shaking my scales to charge

my zodiac clothes, impenetrable once more.

No might of weapon matches my disguise,

and I am embalmed against all false flatterers.

 

Unless -

 

you choose to crumble me with a kiss

 

that cools my mirror,

 

I daresay I may fall

 

but then

you would not look to me anymore,

and in vain, I am just salty water.