In my youth her beauty impressed me.
I pour out my body for her.
All I love is worth ransacking heaven and earth for a few coins.
When the service is over — finding her gone —I follow her and learn in doses what I desire.
We communicate with sighs and subtle gestures, which we pretended not to understand.
She is embarrassed, noticing the bed linens stained.
Among innumerable cameras watching us, is hidden the solemn
gravity of love.
What she pleases is dangerous….when does one know when one is safe?
There are advantages to being depleted.
Victims of love are the least able to resist occupation.
Discordant harmony, but another example of for her affect on me a constant interpretation of gestures.
Being drawn apart produces a certain distress —in me —
the more aggravated.
She returned my passions with a red hot iron.
Poems amorous: torn, scattered.
In time, her intrigues tangled my mind.
The entire history of affection is expressed by a misreading of intervening connections.
The old moorish woman throws down bones to tell me what is already obvious.
Expel amoorus delusions!
I have been abandoned at regular intervals. again and again….
I abandon at regular intervals. again and again….
It is natural that I should love her—her abscense, a slight of hand, a trick of mirrors, a collusion between us.
The rain is falling
Paris is no longer in danger.