We bear the sole, relentless tenderness.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.

There is no space wider than that of grief.

Over your breasts of motionless current, over your legs of firmness and water, over the permanence and the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my love, now that the tears are thrown into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable of mangled silver, alone with a tip of your breast of snow.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.