You have to enter the house at night
when she sleeps
and her cats and dogs and everything
that lives with her also sleeps.
But you can also wait for the hour
when she gets into the car or jumps on the bike
and turns the key twice in the gate
or the door, and when she turns the corner
enter by force or by cunning
claiming to be someone we are not
so that the neighbors do not raise their tongues,
you have to enter no matter what
because everything she says or does can be
the dreaded fallacy, the apocryphal material of
appearance, and one wants the absolute being of
her. without ligaments. one must penetrate the red mailström
of her chest, the very heart of her darkness,
one must enter and open wide
the books of her library, there is the blood,
the shadow of the blood, its thorn, its bone,
see exactly the verses of Goethe that
she has marked, what she underlined for Marechal,
with what color she rounded off Moreno's paragraphs,
one must enter day or night, naked or
discreet. whatever the cost. to love her even
in discouragement, in the street, in the forest, in the
bed, in the barren texts, one must
know what she underlines. see the trace of her thought.
outside those lines everything is
literature.