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

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

I am not jealous of what came before me. Come with a man on your shoulders, come with a hundred men in your hair, come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, to the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; we shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth, to start our life!

Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.