A pale blonde went by like a golden plant swaying her gifts. And my mouth went like a wave discharging on her breast lightningbolts of blood ... If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week ... Their softness came flying over time, over the sea, over the smoke, over the spring, and when you placed your hands on my chest, I recognized those golden dove wings, I recognized that clay and that color of wheat ... Home