Because the Sun Roosts in Your Hands
Because the sun roosts in your hands,
I turn my face to you when I dream.
Others on the street point and say,
“Look at that idiot dancing in circles!”
“Something is bound to hit him.”
Yes, I am circling
your moist nest tonight.
Even the brass band can’t keep up with this dancing.
The tambourine is a blur of coins and kisses,
the horns wet and salty.
My white shirt is a falcon
flying from my fingertips to its master.