Ecstasy mire in its own sorrow, As if a ghost makes love to its shade. The wooden door merely holds the knock; Instead it punches out within the walls, Dispersed as if a blow of clay. There the sound hauls up a craft: Foul of the wooden scent. Just as it intertwines with cloisters, The curves are lined into a silhouette. The mountainous fogs are sharpened, The apex is buttoned and round. The matter it is that shapes the core: The mere marriage of soul and dust. How a flesh can tease its craft, As it gnaws on a clavicle(?) The ghost sips on a river, As if making love to its shade.