It is nothing but a breath, more full of moisture than crying,

a liquid, a sweat, an oil that has no name,

a sharp motion,

taking shape, making itself thick,

the water is falling

in slow drops

toward the sea, toward its dry ocean,

toward its wave without water.

I look at the wide summer, and a loud noise coming from a barn,

wineshops, cicadas,

towns, excitements,

houses, girls

sleeping with hands over their hearts,

dreaming of pirates, of conflagrations,

I look at ships,

I look at trees of bone marrow

bristling like mad cats,

I look at blood, daggers and women's stockings,

and men's hair,

I look at beds, I look at corridors where a virgin is sobbing,

I look at blankets and organs and hotels.

I look at secretive dreams,

I let the straggling days come in,

and the beginnings also, and memories also,

like an eyelid held open hideously

I am watching.

And then this sound comes:

a red noise of bones,

a sticking together of flesh

and legs yellow as wheatheads meeting.

I am listening among the explosion of the kisses,

I am listening, shaken among breathings and sobs.

I am here, watching, listening,