I have not always had this certainty, this pessimism which reassures the best among us. There was
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All the trees all their branches all of their leaves
The grass at the foot of the rocks and the houses en masse
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On my school notebooks
On my desk and on the trees
On the sands of snow
I write your name
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We both have our hands to give
Take mine I shall lead you afar
I have lived several times my face hasw changed
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I. Soon
Of all the springtimes of the world
This one is the ugliest
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I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains
My mouth is upon your pillow
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It’s the sweet law of men
They make wine from grapes
They make fire from coal
They make men from kisses
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Fertile Eyes
No one can know me more
More than you know me
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Despair has no wings,
Nor has love,
No countenance:
They do not speak.
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