You are more than my hearing for you hear
what I bear of your voice in my ears.
And so I walk deaf to myself
full of your tender inflections.
Your voice alone!
You are more than my scent for you smell
what my nostrils bear of your odor.
And so I go in ignorance of my own aroma,
exuding your perfumed precincts,
a sudden garden of you!
You are more than my tongue for you taste
what I bear on my tongue of you alone,
and so I go insensible to my flavors
tasting the delight of yours,
the taste only of you.
You are more than my touch for on me
you caress your caress and spill over.
And so I touch on my body the pleasure
of your hands set afire by mine.
And I am only the living mirror
of your senses. The faithfulness
of the lake in the volcano’s throat.
She will look for me among trees driven mad
by the silence of one thing beyond another.
She will not find me on the raveled plateau
sensing her at the source of a rose.
I am slicing the fruit of insomnia
with a hand accidentally slashed.
And my house is open and undefended,
for death will no longer find me.
And she will have to seek me above trees and among clouds.
(Voice kindling fruit and color!)
And I cannot wait for her: I have a date
with life, at the windows of a song.
I hear steps — very far away?…
There’s still time to escape.
For the night to raise its stars,
a deep sound of shadows fell onto the sea.
And the blood explodes against my heart.
The falling dusk is so bright that I can undress.
Then when death comes to seek me,
she will find only my clothing.
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