Fresco
I came to confuse myself
with her,
so much . . . ! Through her spiritual
twists and turns, I kept
playing among the tender strawberry beds,
between her matinal Greek hands.
Later she would arrange
the black
and bohemian loops of my tie. Once again
I would see the absorbed
stone, the spurned benches, and the clock
winding us up on its reel
to the stroke of its interminable wheel.
How good those nights were
that today make her laugh
at my strange dying,
at my pensive way of wandering.
Golden sugar pastes,
sugar jewels
that in the end shatter on
the tombstone mortar of this world.
But for the tears of love,
the stars are lovely little handkerchiefs,
lilac,
orange,
and green,
which the heart soaks through.
And if now there is thick bile in these
silks,
there is a tenderness that is never born,
that never dies,
another great apocalyptic handkerchief
is flying,
the blue, unpublished hand of God!