Your Doings

In season and out of season you come to me – it makes no difference at all what I am busy with – at the writing desk or by the lit stove; on tiptoe you come up behind me you put your hands over my eyes you slide your lips along my neck you take my earlobe between your teeth; then... you spray your fountain of water into my inflamed body; you laugh, you leave... I remain – weightless in a space between sky and earth – with the onion burnt in the fire with the word unwritten on the paper with the water-water sound of my burning body that draws me after you day by day more naked...