My books closed again on the name “Paphos”
It amuses me to be chosen with the only genius
A ruin, blessed by a thousand foams
Under the hyacinth, far off, in its triumphant days

The cold roams with its counterfeit silences
I shall not hoot there, in an empty nowhere
If this very white frolic at ground level denies
At any site the honor of the false landscape

My hunger which doesn’t feast on any fruits here
Finds in their lack of learning a savor equal to
That which explodes from flesh, human and aromatic

The foot on any dragon where our love pokes
I think, a long time, perhaps desperately
Of the other, in the burned breast of an ancient amazon

07/22/08