When I touch your face with my fingers
I put onto you
all the grace and heaviness in which you, unready
for the morning light, wrap yourself
while hiding from boats and ships
that lurk from parks through the window.
My mornings are different from yours as
the whiteness I'm telling you about
I carried all night through the streets.
Your mornings are far better. Without whiteness,
without excessive movements, without anything
we, drunk and dry from the night,
could call happiness.
And what if you are right when you watch me
over your shoulder
like some small thing, something that
fades at every touch we make?
I spoke to the things on the table, all
that was laid in front of us.
I spoke: if I walk out my hand
through the glass in the room
I wanted to be quiet to you about
lie on our bodies as a phantasm?
I watch you lying, all snowy
and full of silence. Where could we
cast off fugacious as we are: you
as dense whiteness, me as an eye
on your neck?