Sunday, June 13, 2010

The Holy Forest

He speaks of warrior saints, and she now feels he is one.

At night, when she lets his hair free, he is once more another constellation, the arms of a thousand equators against his pillow, waves of it between them in their embrace and in their turns of sleep. She holds an Indian goddess in her arms, she holds wheat and ribbons. As he bends over her it pours. She can tie it against her wrist. As he moves she keep her eyes open to witness the gnats of electricity in his hair in the darkness of the tent.

He is familiar with her breath when he places his face against her body, at the clavicle, where the bone lightens the skin.
-The English Patient

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