FOOTPRINT ON THE SAND

A bare foot. But only
its imprint. Only the brittle
transcription. A touch of perfume
was here. Who could now
follow you, breeze that one day
carried away the last
vestige of warm flesh?
Naked imprint, all of a piece.
First footing of my desire,
on which the statue I cannot disown
is today erected complete.

WITHOUT LIGHT

The swordfish, whose weariness is due above all to
      the impossibility of tunnelling through darkness,
of feeling in its flesh the cold of the sea depths
                        where blackness is without love,
...