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.