my eyes talk into yours, show you
how a small lizard, warming his belly
on a sun-baked rock before fleeing into a crevice,
is a metaphor, a ribbon of words, a pebble,
throbbing in the palm
of a poet
yes, you say,
there are many, many unwritten poems
in this world, and most have a crevice
between the legs, like an entrance
to the secret tunnel
of dying
all around me I hear the sound
of an earth as it spins and turns,
and in the colour of your eyes the throb
of something four-footed,
the lizard-movements
of a body,
and I say:
have I ever told you
that a cantadora once wrote:
to make love is “un baile con La Muerte?
you, my mr Neruda, are dancing with death –
it’s a good thing that I love you
so harmlessly
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Love, C
Lovely penning, love the story within your lines, lovely. ~Tia
And, I consider myself very close to both of you all. 
