You have moonlines, applepathways:
Naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba;
You have vines and stars in your hair;
Naked, you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.
Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails,
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world,
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.
it came from, from winter or a river.I don’t know how or when,no they were not voices, they were notwords, nor silence,but from a street I was summoned,from the branches of night,abruptly from the others,among violent firesor returning alone,there I was without a faceand it touched me.I did not know what to say, my mouthhad…
the white figure, that piercesthe motionless eternity of earth,pushing at clear, faint, form,till the hour strikes: that clay,with a white ray, or a spur of milk.Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil,on whose cliff the fair flower advances,till the flag of its whitenessdefeats the contemptible deep of night,and, from the motion of light,spills itself…
The truth is in the prologue. Death to the romantic fool,to the expert in solitary confinement,I’m the same as the teacher from Colombia,the rotarian from Philadelphia, the merchantfrom Paysandu who save his silverto come here. We all arrive by different streets,by unequal languages, at Silence.
Everyone pries under your sheets,everyone interferes with your loving.They say terrible things about a man and a woman,who after much milling about,all sorts of compunctions,do something unique,they both lie with each other in one bed.I ask myself whether frogs are so furtive,or sneeze as they please.Whether they whisper to each other in swamps about illegitimate…
Your feet of arched bone,your hard little feet.I know that they support you,and that your sweet weightrises upon them.Your waist and your breasts,the doubled purpleof your nipples,the sockets of your eyesthat have just flown away,your wide fruit mouth,your red tresses,my little tower.But I love your feetonly because they walkedupon the earth and uponthe wind and…
From your open kisses,Your wet body wedgedBetween my wet body and the strakeOf our boat that is made of flowers,Feasted, we guide it – our fingersLike tallows adorned with yellow metal –Over the sky’s hot rim,The day’s last breath in our sails.Pinned by the sun between solsticeAnd equinox, drowsy and tangled togetherWe drifted for months…
