here and here they explode silently into crocuses of brightness. (That is enough of life, for you. I understand. Once again. . . .)sliding a little downward,embrace me with your body’s suddenly curving entire warm questions X sunlight was over our mouths fears hearts lungs arms hopes feet hands under us the unspeaking Mediterranean bluer than we had imagined a few cries drifting through high air a sail a fishing boat somebody an invisible spectator, maybe certain nobodies laughing faintly playing moving far below us perhaps one villa caught like pieces of a kite in the trees, here and here reflecting sunlight (everywhere sunlight keen complete silent and everywhere you your kisses your flesh mind breathing beside under around myself) by and by a fat colour reared itself against the sky and the sea . . . finally your eyes knew me, we smiled to each other, releasing lay, watching (sprawling, in grass upon a cliff) what had been something else carefully slowly fatally turning into ourselves . . . while in the very middle of fire all the world becoming bright and little melted. FOUR I the moon looked into my window it touched me with its small hands and with curling infantile fingers it understood my eyes cheeks mouth its hands(slipping)felt of my necktie wandered against my shirt and into my body the sharp things fingered tinily my heart life the little hands withdrew, jerkily, themselves quietly they began playing with a button the moon smiled she let go my vest and crept through the window she did not fall she went creeping along the air over houses roofs And out of the east toward her a fragile light bent gatheringly II if being morticed with a dream myself speaks (whispering, suggesting that our souls inhabit whatever is between them) knowing my lips hands the way i move my habits laughter i say you will perhaps pardon, possibly you will comprehend. and how this has arrived your mind may guess if at sunset it should, leaning against me, smile; or(between dawn and twilight)giving your eyes, present me also with the terror of shrines which noone has suspected(but wherein silently always are kneeling the various deaths which are your lover lady:together with what keen innumerable lives he has not lived. III here’s a little mouse)and what does he think about, i wonder as over this floor(quietly with bright eyes)drifts(nobody can tell because Nobody knows, or why jerks Here &, here, gr(oo)ving the room’s Silence)this like a littlest poem a (with wee ears and see?