Through your thighs the Tour Eiffel, l'Arc de Triomphe can be seen
and the vicious crowd that trample each other as to the sky –
thus, living on big foot, alongside you I can visit the world,
follow the clouds and smell the sweat from subway on a November day,
when you choose the lower middle way

Your nose looks like the cliff I’ve climbed last summer –
so smooth that the edelweisses became round shaped;
only my fingers were bending like the flamingo birds
when pondering in the moving mirror,
and had the sensation of drowning

When I hold your warm and velvety hand I feel the invasion of the needles
that run like crazy to the hypothalamus, and return tired
to announce the exact time in the empty clock
The moments of senses’ expansion in a desert of shadows without master,
look like following your every move through instinctual yells

Your bosom… O! Your bosom, half bald, half forest, makes me
think about the evenings when we were walking near the graveyard and it was cold,
and half warm. Then I found out for the first time that the difference
between death and life is exactly of six feet under: full of soil and worms
and rusty iron pieces, and bones

Your letters smell like apple, like cigars and taste like white wine –
less like paper and expensive Chinese ink
when I open them they gather shyly on the table, whisper sweet words and then show me
an auburn leaf, a chair, a gas lamp and the window wide opened unto the sky,
and lipstick, prelude, mystery

From nowhere the eyes start to focus, to cut from you mild pieces … virgin ones,
to smell in the heels, to haul your thighs, to climb on the nose
inside of the churchyards, to revile you and then resigned
to bury you
in time