So I took her to the river


believing she was a maiden


but she already had a husband


It was on St. James night


and almost as if I was obliged to


The lanterns went out


and the crickets lighted up


In the farthest street corners


I touched her sleeping breasts


and they opened to me suddenly


like spikes of hyacinth


The starch of her petticoat


sounded in my ears


like a piece of silk


rent by ten knives


Without silver light on their foliage


the trees had grown larger


and a horizon of dogs


barked very far from the river


Past the blackberries


the reeds and the hawthorne


underneath her cluster of hair


I made a hollow in the earth


I took off my tie


she too off her dress


I, my belt with the revolver


She, her four bodices


Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl


have skin so fine


nor does glass with silver


shine with such brilliance


Her thighs slipped away from me


like startled fish


half full of fire


half full of cold


That night I ran


on the best of roads


mounted on a nacre mare


without bridle stirrups


As a man, I won’t repeat


the things she said to me


The light of understanding


has made me more discreet


Smeared with sand and kisses


I took her away from the river


The swords of the lilies


battled with the air


I behaved like what I am


like a proper gypsy


I gave her a large sewing basket


of straw-colored satin


but I did not fall in love


for although she had a husband


she told me she was a maiden


when I took her to the river