Desire of the Rose, Desire of Swords:
Poetry by Duo Duo

That Time

why does the camel need twin humps to make it through the desert?

I look at you, you only look at yourself
I look there, I only see you

I look at things I cannot see
I see time—that long, long rose

at that time the lion could still think, no flames of fury in the beauty’s eyes
at that time we could still walk into things we could not understand

it’s the heart that creates the invisible, between riddle
and its four walls, letting the parable of life pass through the ring

the way my sunlight might pierce your eyes
to see some even farther place

women’s bodies used to be a meadow, still releasing all that dreams received
the river’s flow is slowed by the breath of their bathing

at that time you appeared, planting your feet, to stop my pacing
love should have no name, to darken the hill that grows only roses

only two trees are left there, one the shadow of the other

trees have no heart, and stand straight because no one will embrace them
but taller still when leaned on by sterilized women

a woman’s statue in a corner of the park, everyone walking by
tosses a coin into her mouth
at that time I heard a kind of sound, softer than a snake sigh

beauty kneeling there, as if for some first offense
as stable as creation

that’s how the snake listened to my tale
vines sprouting wings entwining around the clock, too little for love to use

in silence is a never-ignited lamp, light it
to illuminate each day that never reached us

not knowing what emotions want, the bird hides its head in implication
feed it with what wisdom is in the cage

you hide behind your smile, the sun telling lies inside your eye

I steal your words while you toss the salad
at what degree is guessing stealing?

your heart is hiding in back of whatever I’m looking for
in back is its entire location

the caged animal pricks up its ears, meatballs in the clouds, clouds full of fervor

on its own in the darkness, as are you, the sun secretly shines
we’ll just have to stay silent with eyes open

your eyes are two windows open at sea bottom
the stars above our heads just a bunch of tvs

oyster shells dump onto the bed where we turn and overturn
I enter the other side of night

the fifth season is already singing falsetto

an apple smiles on the window sill, the rose only knows growing thorns
all words brighten

tomorrow in the clock already, a sixth toe starts to grow on your foot

two great birds, featherless, bodies all muscle
in the dark we identify each other

honeysuckle hanging midair like a right hook
powerless to restrain its conclusion

the desire of the rose now the same as the desire of swords

a pair of shoes maintains the shape of your toes
the dancer walks by, meaning there’ll be as many times turning back
as there are times setting out

I get near you, wait for you, my flowers
blooming on another’s collar, I on your dust

I am your landscape painting flittering back and forth
I am your lover

I’m not me, but Jesus is about to leap from my heart
I am your downfall

count my glass tears, you already grasp the story of the future

from behind you’re more complex than you are, I’m still observing
the field between us

lonesomeness is a lighthouse, parallel with love
sneering springs from self-mockery, via justification

the rose is grey, its shadow rose-colored

my face is half of my mask

no one is themselves, I see feather-shaped shadows fighting with the wind

witnesses help us forget

I insist on a state of being alive, my solitude brokers no disturbance

I’m a writer who rolls through seven bedsheets a year
I rely on nervousness more than I rely on your bed

I recollect in song, and rock the arrowheads on my back

whoever empathizes with pain, go count wool

and take away my drum, burying it is worth more than beating it

in back of me, these words use my voice
that’s how strong the coffin is

loneliness is for the young
a woman whose eyelids are covered with dead moths takes aim at my constellation

fishers stare with fish eyes, observing their own hearts

trees see further, with no more obstructions, having given them all up
the children slapping trees are all angels, each shorter than the last

practice this imperfection, the earth has no other sight
the world has an aching mother

father blocked by mother, the cello has a pear-shaped posterior

I’m afraid of thunder, and so’s mom, I love what I fear

a great bird is staring at me, with a maternal expression
I cover my face, happily growing teeth

I’m wearing clothes a goldfish has worn, endlessly taking candy out of its pockets

the tree wears a boy’s shorts wiping the sky
the letters sent to mother’s grave have arrived

I dream, dreaming I’m no longer a horse

inaction is too expensive, the thunder of old age sent it
lightning loves that it never possessed it

the soul was unprepared, precious objects are in hiding
more faithful than mother’s grave

gravestones kiss gravestones, between them the effort to open up flesh is renewed

a horse comes galloping over, we know each other, so the horse gallops away
another horse comes galloping, so we gallop away