Poetry has lost its ties with the reader, he’s out of reach . . . It has to get him back . . . It has to walk in the darkness and encounter the heart of man, the eyes of woman, the strangers in tbe streets, those who at twiligbt or in the middle of tbe starry night feel the need for at least one line of poetry . . . This visit to the unexpected is worth all the distance covered, everything read, everything learned . . .I have to disappear into the midst of those we don’t know, so they will suddenly pick up something of ours from the street, from the sand, from the leaves that have fallen for a thousand years in the same forest . . . and will take up gently the object we made . . . Only then will we truly be poets In that object, poetry will live….Suddenly a hand slid over me, a large, calloused hand, but it was a woman’s. It ran over my brow, my eyes, my whole face, tenderly. Then an avid mouth clung to mine and I felt a woman’s
body pressing against mine, all the way down to my feet.
Little by little my fear turned into intense pleasure. My hand slid over braided hair, a smooth brow, eyes with closed lids soft as poppies, and went on exploring. I felt two breasts that were full and firm, broad, rounded buttocks, legs that locked around me,
and I sank my fingers into pubic hair like mountain moss. Not a word came from that anonymous mouth.

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