The Perfect Love

I’d give you the perfect love and the wretch, without which there would be no perfect love I’d give you a night that has yet to be born and morning with vile intentions that has not happened yet I’d give you lavishly morning in the wasteland I would given you all the sweet languages and all the shapes that were slowly matured in me I’d give you them, wolves and jackals and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and Belgrade on fire from which I managed to escape, roasted, skinned and cooked I would give you Heaven and Hell I’d give you the fire and the quiet joy and the child’s language All that is both happy and sad and wounds that emerge from the mud and my childhood and my father whose hands killed me twice and his words were rubbed into the places that hurt I’d give you my luxuriously morning in the desolation and feeble tail surfaces in the text and truncated chairs in my poems I’d give you everything!