You
do not go out of my head,
out of my pores,
out of my dreams,
out of my arms,
and still,
having scattered round
the bundle of the golden hair
gently touch my collarbone,
when lie face down on my shoulders,
and the moths of the eyelashes are on the cheeks.
Sometimes it’s as if I see you
out of the corner of my eye.
And I’m no longer your friend,
and hell is with me, and all around
the bridges are flaming up in full blast,
and all these qualms -
it seems to me that it’s you, too.