Cloudberries

There was a Russian poet
named Mayakovsky who called
himself cloud in pants.
He spoke of his velvet voice,
so I wanted to make
love to him.

And I think of Bruce Chatwin,
who died too young
of a disease
that invaded him
in China.

He brought songlines to the world,
and I dream that I lend him one letter
of my alphabet
to use at his discretion.
I would become invisible
and enter his bloodstream.

Was his gait confident and grounded,
like that of a real estate agent?
Or did his steps sway and give,
like a sailor?