I feel like keeping silent. It is noisy with words —
you cannot hear your senses…
And then what is the word
for the smell of the chestnut Turkish delight,
when it pushes in from your pillow
into the disturbed sleep of my hair?…
What is the word for that buzz
in the starting to,
in the dense expectation
and in the reveille of intoxicated bees
in the hollow,
in tears with light…
Where are the words for that taste of the morsel —
sodden with your fingers,
warm and nicotian,
and of the ladybug of wine,
held up on your lip?
I don’t know such noiseless words.
Listen – to the inebriating flow
of my blood under your hand —
slow like honey, and sweet, and golden,
you could sense the silence murmuring
with a word – still unnamed
and already incomprehensible…
