For Ida

The bed-sheets are white. The big book is black. Between them the body is naked. My white silk morning robe is at the house by the sea. I project reality between fire and knowledge. In reality I wear my lush silk everywhere. Also in dreams. I want salt in my hair. The sand is white. The sky is white. The zero degree temperature makes my hands white. I stick my pink toes into the water. The wind blows into my white wrap around. The peasants also possess knowledge. They are convinced that they see a crazy cosmopolitan. They nod. They know one when they see one. In the book of Romans it is written: "whatsoever is not of faith is sin." The clash of opposites, antitheta, is the most effective form of verbal eloquence. I enunciate into their mute faces: "I have faith." The wind blows the silk onto my face. I make sinful analogies. Of the fluid kind. Knowledge flows between our legs. Fire burns our heads. The book to ashes. The silk syncopates a fold. I hold on to it.


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