oh of your

only constellation eyes! of your

big loud hands! set odd the angled

the angles of your big loud hands! don't

speak of the streets-

my hands are small

from painting portraits- you are angled

in

monosyllabic blackandwhite-

you are oh pressed so

close to my small hands that

I feel the big loudness of your hands-

the big loudness of your black hair

which is the sky set for constellations,

and I am walking drowned here in the

photograph of your

graphic books. listen! listen! listen

to your big loud

hands you are making

bricks! in the Siberian straw

which is not good for

sleep-

tell me what happened

tell me why your big loud hands are still moving

behind the effervescence of this

photograph-

this flat photograph-

I have in my

small hands the

constellations of

your eyes or under

your eyes or the dark

under your eyes, you

were big

and loud

and in so much love

with the sun you murdered

twice in the sun-

in April, with your big loud hands