I know there is a
Who looks for me day and night inside her hand,and coming upon me, every minute, in her shoes.
Doesn't she know that the night is buriedwith spurs behind the kitchen?
I know there is someone composed of my pieces,whom I complete when my waist goesgalloping in her precise little stone.
Doesn't she know that money once out for her likenessnever returns to her trunk?
I know the day,but the sun has escaped from me;
I know the universal act she performed in her bedwith some other woman's bravery and warm water,whose shallow recurrence is a mine.
Is it possible this being is so smalleven her own feet walk on her that way?
A cat is the border between us two,right there beside her bowl of water.
I see her on the corners, her dress - oncean inquiring palm tree - opens and closes...
What can she do but change her style weeping?
But she does look and look for me.
This is a real story! translated by Robert Bly
