If my poetry makes you famous
all the credit should go to you—
the best poetry follows
what lovers do.
When the poem lies down
it is because you did so
in sweet proximity of me.
There is a tumbling of delicate nuances
thanks to you, in my poetry.
You did it all. The stretched observances.
The hasty patience inside my reflections.
The sorrow because you can’t be seen here.
Every cause that’s mine belongs to you.
Naturally, the effect, too.
The flame of your skin is neither blue nor brown.
The shadows of my poetry joined life
in this life, when I watched you lie down.