GLOSS ON THE COMING OF AUTUMN Poem by Jorge de Sena

The body does not wait. Neither for us
nor for love. This groping of hands,
researching with such reticence
the warm, silky aridness
that twitches from embarrassment
in movements quick and random;
this groping attended not by us
but by a thirst, a memory, whatever
we know about touching the bared
body that does not wait; this groping
that doesn't know, doesn't see, doesn't
dare to be afraid of feeling scared…

The body's so hasty! All is over and done
when one of us, or when love, has come.