The sun shines through the horizon.
In its vague rose, aquarelle-delicate
Opalescent darkish tree branches’
Veinlaces are outlining softly
I’m drawing the contours of frost-works
With my fingertips on the windows
Like at night in the vapour of the heat inside
You were carving your perfume’s turbulent flame
With your fingers on my ice-satin skin.
With your nails you’ve hollowed furrows
Into my thighs’ snow-whiteness
Your moans have permeated into
My hair’s sparkling, crabbing pulse.
The window’s coldness caresses my face.
In its mirror the trees’ nib are carving your face.
I just straighten my clothes.
My plane takes off.
Among the clouds I might hear your moan.
