Leaves, something in my ear you twitter
hardly audible, you whisper to my cheek, tickle,
you'll not cure my soul's deafness this way.
I'll not shed tears, remembering those nights

which existed, no more do, and behind which
there's no catching up, even at breakneck speed,
neither by express train nor direct,
to reach the bare-legged, dewy dawn.

I kept a keen knife, in case of love.
I warn the shower:
"Don't!"
Leaves, something in my ear you whispered,
rustled in under my ribs, tickled the larynx . . .