Neit cut by a piece of glass
in a eland of thorns
nor trocious ers seen in the corners
of certain ers like eyelids and eyes
can capture your in my hands
s its oaks
tohread of snow.
Nocturnal sugar, spirit
of the crowns,
ransomed
human blood, your kisses
send into exile
and a stroke of er, s of the sea,
neats on t for you
surrounding t doors.
Nig spindles,
divided, material, nothing
but voice, not
naked every day.
Over your breasts of motionless current,
over your legs of firmness and er,
over the pride
of your naked hair
I to be, my love, no tears are
thrown
into ts we,
I to be, my love, alone h a syllable
of mangled silver, alone ip
of your breast of snow.