The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punnishment.

I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.

Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.