“There was no mystery: even before I learned to read and write I knew it was in order to write poetry.”

You were sculpted on a prow,
Time wore you away as the foam might have done,
It closed your eyes one stormy night,

It’s dawn. Has this lamp finished, then,
Its task of hope, hand resting
In the mirror fogged up over the fever

Knock,
Knock forever.

In the lure of the threshold.

Doubly silent the afternoon
By virtue of empty summer, and of a flame
Overflowing, is it from this vase