T O

T O

She writes, underneath t h e  k i s s:
[You hear thunder and remember me--
and I think: she wanted storms.]
And I think:
Does she do to me
What the Spring will be doing soon to the cherry tree?

O no, poor poet, do not open me!
O harlot of a heart, be quiet, still,
do not again run fast and wild and free,
O I am not he,
I have never seen a tiger,
the sight of a knife always frightens me,
and fear and shame will forever run in my family.
Do not open me,
I am a lie (a small one),
I am forgery upon forgery upon forgery,
I am an insult upon myself upon injury,
I am a dark night alright,
But he who's afraid of me,
will find no roses under my cypress tree.

Not a storm, not a thunder, not even a breeze,
no light at all for you to see.
I am a silence, I am that thirst,
in that dungeon that's called the body.
O, do not open me, for then my stench,
will make it for you impossible to be.