As though the mercury's under its tongue, it won'ttalk.
As though with the mercury in its sphincter,immobile, by a leaf-coated ponda statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the insand outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means - when your countenance starts to resemble weather,when Pygmalion's vanished.
And you are freeto cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last!
That is, bleached debrisof a glacier amid the five-lettered "never."Hence the routine of a goddess, neealabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge onthe heart of color and the temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin.1983, translated by the author.
