The orient has already kindled its forge.
On the horizon the red faced sun
melts down the golden ingots.

Hone me
on the stone smooth as granite
to be sharpened.

Between fingers
I thinned out the clay
from dough
to spit.

On an alabaster catafalque
I saw you laid out
with the starched drapery folds
with resin of incense

With what drill can I perforate
diamonds to purloin
the flame of the playful light…

Like bess
with bags bloated
with dreams of flowers and blossoms…

Here,
in this sheltered hideout,
in this night
when stars migrate

An incompetent coward am I.
But I know how to make
the lilies lift their ear trumpets
to hearken
my soft thread.

What is the wind saying
snoring and snorting
down the drainpipes?