ROMANCE
I am disgusted from those days in Venice. The sky, them, death, them.
One single line of light: his body, the water, the study, me.
In all this: me, who, on the verge of the sea,
traverses life, traverses death, and am still upright; me, who, in the midst of a field,
open air, resists the wind, the current, the laminated sight.
Me, who could all but love.