With our waiting body

 Of the tenor I know. Every time. The afternoon. The water falls. That's why. A river of mute gods fosters its banks. Flooded godlands. With our hands to the touch we saw. With our waiting body. Your points of contact. emotion points. predisposed. to our meetings. Of distant rain. From the end of the continent. His taste suddenly out. Suddenly out of my head. In his slow time. Infinite space between points. The dots come with their black heads. The dots run over the space of the pages. Until they turn the sky into water with their agitation.