It’s all a matter of frequencies.
Even this mendicancy of intimacies
of your memories.
Afterall they kill their animals
for the skin a music so serene
it must be of the forest of dead membranes
the tabla, the galaxies, and the tarantula
in the moonlight,
in divine animal hide
day and night.
Probably and perchance
smelted from each other in an heavenly trance
the moon and the morning star
the copulating snakes in a dead jar
as I wait for the barber
in his shop
about to be shredded.