Never
did I speak with her either about love
or about death
only blind taste and mute touch
used to run between us
when absorbed in ourselves
we lay close
I must peek inside her to see what she wears at her center
when she slept with her lips open
I peeked
and what
and what
would you think I caught sight of
I was expecting branches
I was expecting a bird
I was expecting a house by a lake great and silent
but there on a glass counter
I caught sight of a pair
of silk stockings
on the glass counter of the little soul
