So I took her to the riverbelieving she was a maiden,but she already had a husband.
It was on St.
James nightand almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went outand the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street cornersI touched her sleeping breastsand they opened to me suddenlylike spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoatsounded in my earslike a piece of silkrent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliagethe trees had grown largerand a horizon of dogsbarked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,the reeds and the hawthorneunderneath her cluster of hairI made a hollow in the earthI took off my tie,she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver,
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o'-pearlhave skin so fine,nor does glass with silvershine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from melike startled fish,half full of fire,half full of cold.
That night I ranon the best of roadsmounted on a nacre marewithout bridle stirrups.
As a man,
I won't repeatthe things she said to me.
The light of understandinghas made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kissesI took her away from the river.
The swords of the liliesbattled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,of straw-colored satin,but I did not fall in lovefor although she had a husbandshe told me she was a maidenwhen I took her to the river.
