Читать книгу Wolf Centos - Simone Muench - Страница 11

When tenderness seems tired,

the girl nestles down in me

with her she-wolf’s mask,

places a word in the hollow

of my mute being.

Impossible to be alone

in language, light of bird-laden

lemon trees.

We’re between blue & good evening,

heaving with brilliants: the mortal

glitter of the naked beach,

the glass horizon.

(It is the human that is alien.)

Even with her severed tongue

the she-wolf bathes herself

in the blue vertigo in my mouth

where the planets flicker.

The orange tree breaks into foam

& no god comes.