I seek the limits of your body, of my language,
I imagine a capital city elsewhere,
I select sheets, sleepy hospitals and women who don’t care for themselves,
shop for everything that makes me sad, words which mean nothing,
forgotten streets, vague addresses, rested and easy of passage.

I give you too much of everything and too little.
He pressed me so hard, that man, I gulped air,
hired myself out to rain, took refuge in the sum of my knowledge,
Too miserable now to manage anything here.
There is no space between hand and knee, nor any trip
from which I might return a healthier woman.
On coming back it is simpler to bathe me,
translate the body from my language,
seat love at the table, milk, meat, water, hunger,
I didn’t write to you, but I wanted to.