Neither the heart cut by a sliver of glass
in a wasteland of thorns,
nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes,
could hold your waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oak trees
toward your unbreakable thread of snow.
Night sugar, spirit
of crowns,
redeemed
human blood, your kisses
banish me,
and a surge of water with remnants of the sea
strikes the silences that wait for you
surrounding the worn-out chairs, wearing doors away.
Nights with clear axis,
departure, matter, uniquely
voice, uniquely
naked each day.
Upon your breasts of still current,
upon your legs of harshness and water,
upon the permanence and pride
of your naked hair,
I want to lie, my love, the tears now cast
into the raucous basket where they gather,
I want to lie, my love, alone with a syllable
of destroyed silver, alone with a tip
of your snowy breast.
It is not now possible, at times,
to win except by falling,
it is not now possible, between two people,
to tremble, to touch the river's flower:
man fibers come like needles,
transactions, fragments,
families of repulsive coral, tempests
and hard passages through carpets
of winter.
Between lips and lips there are cities
of great ash and moist crest,
drops of when and how, indefinite
traffic:
between lips and lips, as if along a coast
of sand and glass, the wind passes.
That is why you are endless, welcome me as if you were
all solemnity, all nocturnal
like a zone, until you merge
with the lines of time.
Advance in sweetness,
come to my side until the digital
leaves of the violins
have become silent, until the moss
takes root in the thunder, until from the throbbing
of hand and hand the roots come down.
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