Slanting rain is falling from the sky. I cannot
split myself into different personalities and live
so many imaginary lives. I cannot.
Even if I am trapped inside unfinished metaphyics.

Even if love letters seem ridiculous to me,
also. I’m ashamed of them, and am burning them.
I don’t get along very well with my former
self. He was too savage, innocent,

trusting the grace of heights. However, I summoned
you with the letters, with what are now
as you lie by me, ashes on the palm of the hand. Our bed
is our sole sustenance, you say. You lie next

to me, you lie in my thoughts even when not present, while I
am vanishing, sustained, sewn together with depth.
Slanting rain is falling from the sky. Your father and mother
are white clouds, dances of light sailing over our days.

Pain rises and dies in you. I keep quiet. With love
it is the same as with a catastrophe. It transcends speech. We
are left with babbling and hawking when we find ourselves
in the grip of its power. Even without words the two of us are protected

and wealthy in it. Our thoughts intersect and shake hands
continually. They mix breaths, adding some weight to the air.
Short are the days, and even shorter are the nights when I am
startled in sleep, and watch you from the height, how you lie in your

body, deeply immersed in the folds of linen. No one knows
which one of us will be the first to hand a coin to the somber
boatman. But long before, we’ll live in a house with gay balconies.
Your flowers will bloom and drop, will drop and bloom.

And outside will fall the slanting rain.
And outside will shine the horizontal sun.