Is this someone you could take advice from? Who considers the stars? The one who said the truth? Who ate the last biscuit?

Another poet came into being when I saw the life of life,
the death of death:
the child I had birthed.
That was my beginning:
blood burning the groin,
the soul soaring, the baby wailing
in the arms of a nurse.

*        *        *

I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards. 

*        *        *

Immortal: neither dead nor alive.
Immortality is fatal.
Let us embrace. Your arms are
the sleeves of a straightjacket,
a life-belt to stay afloat.
Lyrical poets are cursed:
a caress is always firsthand,
a word rarely.

*        *        *

Learn to look past,
to be the first to part.
Tears, saliva, sperm
are no solvents for solitude.
On gilded wedding bowls,
on prostitutes’ plastic cups,
an eye can see, if skilled,
solitude’s bitter residue.

*        *        *

Perhaps when our bodies throb and rub
against each other, they produce a sound
inaudible to us but heard up there, in the clouds and higher,
by those who can no longer hear common sounds . . .
Or, maybe, this is how He wants to check by ear: are we still intact?
No cracks in mortal vessels? And to this end He bangs
men against women?

*        *        *

Why is the word YES so brief?
It should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it . . .

*        *        *

Tenderly on a tender surface
the best of my lines are written:
with the tip of my tongue on your palate,
on your chest in miniscule letters,
on your belly . . .
But, darling, I wrote them
pianissimo!
May I erase with my lips
your exclamation mark?

*        *        *

Whose face and body would I like to have?
The face and body of Nike.
I would fly past all those Venuses,
would have nothing to do with Apollos.
With the wind chill on my shoulder
I would leave behind forever
the hall of plaster copies!