Out of a poem of words perfectly inexact
You will discover my meaning, who now
Wince in so many ways under my love
As if it were a distant relative
To spend the week-end, or a kangaroo
Delivered without instructions as to diet.
Not a kiss interrupted by your timidities
Nor a long loving look from which you turn your eyes
Will give you this direction;
Neither will your rational conclusions.
You will bend over me
As a pianist who discovers his mistake
And walks, surprised, into a city of curious customs
Which was not there last time he came this road.