To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.

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

Poetry is an act of peace.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.