Let me look into your eyes and sink
into the hot and dark imagining
of seeing you naked in another’s arms.
These are not the whims of the old. Nor deviance.
It is the hard, ruddy-black stone
of the peach which I ate in my hunger,
but which I still work at with my tongue
keeping the sweetness of your love.
Translated by Anna Crowe
Joan Margarit, Still.