in prose chunks

I was interested to see it this way. . .I'm not sure what I think. . .

The hardest thing is to start with a blossom, a roadmap, a partial face appearing red and illegal.I leap and barely land on you. Afraid my tongue will be caught in amber, I do not trust me to let go. All along, it's been about water, how it steadies us, how our buoyancy is pliable in all angles. We did not account for drought.Even though it rains, my body is occluded and cataracted. You are floodgate and waterfall.
When the water vaporizes, how will we see each other without bending light, always bendable light?

translation:

Damp skinflash is a granite you writhe in, unknowably near. Swinging your lapses beneath me, star-dry, we flinch, soporific even, this music of erosion. You have spent thousands of years crested in lavender and corduroy, untouched, carved from basalt. A before-ness, plural and storm-scented, builds its walls from algal ponds, joining you to earth. But thought and its cell-strands, white winesap on your curling tongue. Even this precipitation shrugs, chooses its life. Sawtooth and jacaranda. With only seconds left, I am searching, amorous, spherical, avalanching inward, making purgatories glow with my breath.