Pictures, pictures – so clear and clandestine
I instantly grew stiff – each tree, the whole
wood also looked. I was not even scared,
fell at once between two thighs on finding
it. It got a story only later.
Just like today. Who will unearth my smile?
Who will angel me into bed? The girls
under my mattress, they are all so quick,
at my command they lightning off their clothes,
they have no names, they have no lives, they’re put
straight away. At times in the evening, though,
I see the wood where I found my first book:
a stump with thighs, curled grass, shimmering light,
my eyes smoulder and the sky glimmers. That
afternoon as an open wound.