You are a tall woman. Knotted in a bun,
your hair gives you a golden crown according to Hesiod. You speak
to me nobly.
Your leaning voice. The curve of both
of our words. Inclined towards one another. Your eyes were closed,
like when you kiss or seek my
face with your fingers. Close to you, I thought I finally understood
why the poet is said to be "blind".
Your sentences: moving hands. A body
with a closed gaze. Like a blind man stretching his arms out towards
his night, you lead with
words. With your gestures and your mouth, you savor and you think
out loud. Your words are a skin. You enjoy being a woman.
Curving and gliding you advance, inventing
words when you feel they lack, pressed or pressing them like one
skin against another
desiring the embrace and the thrust, not accepting they are
nothing more than a puff of air and shaken black signs.