This singing br is a kind of dying, br a kind of birth, br a votive candle. br I have a dream-mother br who sings with her guitar, br nursing the bedroom br with a moonlight and beautiful olives. br A flute came too, br joining the five strings, br a God finger over the holes. br I knew a beautiful woman once br who sang with her fingertips br and her eyes were brown br like small birds. br At the cup of her breasts br I drew wine. br At the mound of her legs br I drew figs. br She sang for my thirst, br mysterious songs of God br that would have laid an army down. br It was as if a morning-glory br had bloomed in her throat br and all that blue br and small pollen br ate into my heart br violent and religious.