The Invention of Your Name

I don't seek you in the world of forms,

nor in the mirror that the day gave you;

I want your truth without rules,

what remains of you and is only mine.

African transvestite with red hair,

you are the fire that the gaze cannot consume,

beyond those vain devices

in which time invents a name for you.

I take off the clothes of your memory,

undressing the color, the flesh, and the history,

until I find, in your deepest center,

the light that sustains my world.

You are the dove of my forgotten sun,

flying silently inside me,

in a sky that cannot be measured,

without margin, without port, and without end.

I don't want you in flesh or in fact,

I want the "you" that escapes contact,

that flame of purple and wind

that is born from my thought.

It remains within me, in the purity of the stroke,

without the weight of time or a step,

for to love you is to lose my way

and find you in my disarray.