I will write of the sun
which presses down on me with all its weight
so that I flinch at first,
then bear it, motionless.
its gentle burns heal me, revive me:
like red-hot hands they hold me, support me
and establish me in this place.
I am a living sculpture,
scalded and scorched by the sun I rest, enduring,
and rouse the moments, which are falling out of order
drunk on the heat.
but my thoughts
are clear and bright and heavy as stone.
are mine and only mine -
this time I will, scalded and scorched by the sun,
write of nipples, sleek
as olives and darkening like nuts.
write of a body, nourishing and loving another body,
moving over its surface
and creeping on spider's legs,
devoted and quiet and soft.
this time I will write of the weavings of net
in the evenings, the people already asleep,
when I thread my breath into his ear
and the street, so wide and welcoming,
breathes with us.
Translated by Jana Putrle Srdic and Kelly Lenox Allan