Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.

with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.

If you should ask me where I've been all this time I have to say "Things happen." I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, on the river ruined in its own duration: I know nothing save things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my sister crying. Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with day? Why the dark night swilling round in our mouths? And why the dead?

About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you

I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.