Paroles de 'Grace' par Jill Jones

Desires are daily, consolation
sufficient as suburbs
where we walk by night, past unstoppered gardens
through degrees where edges kiss
but not ostentatiously.
When night's thigh gleams
its covers pave us
we will go ahead, daughters of a day's espousals.
Our shining adjustments make us
thankful as hands.
When a sky bowl so dark is placed above us
even the moon's conquered surfaces
can steer our disparities
our repetitions, like magnets, like iron.

This wanting is almost a substance
bright as our silver vestibules
lithe as postcards scripted by hand.
We anticipate the approach of rivers, wars
damage, orders
arrested at times like an expended flame
unplugging sky from its dark retinues
shattered jewels, unmoored as desire
comes into us, between order & license
and lodges along a path of blossom.

Curves & poles of love cannot be replayed
across stolen distances of light fields.
Can we leave ourselves without
so many barriers
soft beds, gifts in our bodies
our constancy?

Though we are determined by difficulty
time demands we travel with our senses
widened by contact
all the collected arguments
uncertainties that thwart our silence.
Something agitates our fluidity
confessions, disturbances
we make openings darker
than we imagine
find we are more resilient against
the manners of each other's body.

We dabble our feet, shudder
as though there's a hole in the door.
But what we have said is amongst plenty:
navel, liquor, neck
thighs, jewels, eyes.
Taste the crimson galleries.
I will go here, within a circle
even if nobody represents us
this graceful art, yet difficult in effect.

What we return to - stature of pleasures
palms, beams, boughs
perfumes our sleeping lips.