87 To Constance
Down the long tightrope splitting the left from the right --
In a glass filled with tasteless water up to the edges,
Coming afraid of spilling the whipping cold drops,
Slim in silence, you bring to me your wine of despair.
This is your dance with legs that hold on to the rope,
Tight, with arms that must always carry desperate water,
Rough, with a tongue for drying your cracked bleeding voice,
With obedience sharpened by the notes of the oboe.
Caught in the balance tying the wrong with the right,
Empty, filled to the edges with the wind of the music,
In your despair detached and preserved in the glass,
Down the tightrope, you bring to me the wine of your movement.