--- N I C H O L A S   M A N N I N G

     Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces,
     cuando aún no existías.
                            —Pablo Neruda

his hands
upon * your body's curl :
O nimble pain ! O
out
my eyes my
second * sense (so)
plucketh ! from out this fury to
my * heart's revolt * my
anger's awe as awful
black-blood
roses . . . too temperate
were this marble's burning seer : its
agèd reason to foul
inconstancy
upbraided . . . as all * your precious lips
were to a ruby's rife wrong worth
befouled . . . of odour of
another's *
life . . .
O * death am I * O
nothing to this my soul's lost
aspect : ecliptic lip . . . while the black
lake licks its blackened banks . . . so
leave me to * this lonely field this
black * burden where rank roses
grow . . . winding round
my * misery's life :
as * patient * as
the killing
knife