I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.
So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .