Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind.  The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here.  Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your ******* smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

I am the girl who cried apology,
and you,
the embodiment of naive forgiveness,
come running at each little distress.
one day, you’ll learn,
but until then,
just tell me it’s okay.

I can tell you’re tired
of hanging up my skeletons every night.
I’ve been growing lazy with keeping them
in their proper places,
letting them crumble into piles on the floor.
your exasperated sighs grow heavier,
but you never argue or complain,
simply cleaning up every mess I make.
I wonder when you’ll hang me up,
but until then,
we’ll pretend a little longer.

let our hands intertwine,
and we’ll ignore the difference
between love and habituation.
let me repent in your light,
and teach me how to become it.
I want to learn to be something
other than sorry.

This is What I Do.

What I do brings
immortality.

The Words will
always outlast
the Labor.

May your veins rivulet with stars,
and the blood from your bones
tickle the moon.

Third time's the charm
They always say
If the third time
Was the time
That you'd get hurt
The most