Wanting more of you in the bed of moon,
where present and past were disrobing...
The bee stings, O my god,
arrange the pure darkness of milk,
hanging on persona of future.
The yielding was painful, its blankness.
You were collecting the hooks.
I was letting free the fish.
Green was my perch on the white paper,
rewriting your name
without ink
for the sake of hunting the lamp.
