. . . my fear, my joy more horrible than my fear, my obscene words, my words which are keys locking me into a mirror, with you, but ever alone.

Esta manía de saberme ángel,sin edad,sin muerte en qué vivirme,sin piedad por mi nombreni por mis huesos que lloran vagando.

mind the angels my lovemind also those wordsdragging across our lips

Sometimes we suffer too much reality in the space of a single night.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

Your eyes begin in my eyes which no longer see you. Begin in my voice which no longer speaks to you. Die out in my hands which no longer touch you. Your eyes are inscribed in my flesh. No one can bear to see me now. Sinister tattoo. I do the rain, I do the sun. For want of your eyes in my eyes.

And now what will I dowith all this timethat forms my lifewith all these peoplewho care nothing for menow, that you've leftall these nightswhy, for whomand this morningfor nothing returningmy heart bangingfor whom whybanging gravely,gravely,and nowhow to face up tothat nothingnessmy life slippingo friendsbe gentleyou know wellwe have nothing to do with itAnd nowwhat will I donowthat you . . .

All night I see that abandonment is me, that the sole sobbing voice is me. We can search with lanterns, cross the shadow's lie. We can feel the heart thud in the thigh and water subside in the archaic site of the heart. All night I ask you why. All night you tell me no.

I drank to see him againat the bottom of your wine