Sylvia (2006)

and my own comes
from last Spring gone.


Sylvia found the Sea
and it finds me
as the shore to break.
I am made out of sand
she is water touching
making me one

in a foam-wash.

Then I am a word
but not Sylvia
who laying beneath my sheets
murmurs:
At 39 you are alive
and I was gone nine less
before you came.
I am only words in your lips
and you are a voice
in the garden’ wave.

I am a nude woman
quiet and warm
I am Sylvia.