Lover of the books, tell me

WHICH ARE THOSE DÉMODÉ BOOKS
THAT THOU LIKEST TO READ AND TO STUDY SO MUCH?
BECAUSE I WANT VERY MUCH TO ASK THEM SOMETHING:
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE READ BY THEE?

HOW SPLENDID IS IT TO BE SUDDENLY
CHOSEN AND HELD BY THY HANDS,
CARESSED BY THY VERY SENSUAL FINGERS,
AND OGLED BY THY EYES, EVERYWHERE?

LINE BY LINE, LETTER BY LETTER
OH WHAT AUDACITY! ECSTATIC EUPHORIA!
HOW TO SURVIVE TO SUCH ENRAPTURING ALLURANCE?

HOW IS IT THAT IN THY WARM AND TENDER HANDS,
IN THE MIDST OF LECTURE —VERA VICTORIA!—,
THE BOOKS DO NOT SPONTANEOUSLY BURN, CONTENT?

Cerulean dream

I dreamt thee yesterday:
Pneuma, wind, birds, love…
Two strings and a bandoneon.

Poems with my feather I sketched thee:
Azure ink on thy paper skin.

Euphoric breezes:
Fascinating transmutation;
of platinum windows
and not of crystal.

The tango
enlivened thy magnetism,
singing
our bodies we united,
and with mist
the stars we faded.

«Say no to the impossible»
they adverted me,
but they never met thee.
Neither did I.