97 What is this force that hauls me to your eyes -- Drags me across the rocks, traps in one mood -- Making my every hole the wetting wound That leaves the trace of yearning on the ground? Holes of my flesh are each the open mouth Seeking with tearing lips your healing seeds, After I learnt the taste of sand and weeds, Wiping my bleeding tongue across the ground. Teeth of the sand, and talons of the weeds Speak with my moisture in the sough and rustle, Sigh with the hunger of my silent mouth, Holding my tongue in pieces -- in a grip.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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