He said that he had hurt himself on a wall or that he had fallen.
But there was probably another reason
for the wounded and bandaged shoulder.
With a somewhat abrupt movement,
to bring down from a shelf some
photographs that he wanted to see closely,
the bandage was untied and a little blood ran.
I bandaged the shoulder again, and while bandaging it
I was somewhat slow; because it did not hurt,
and I liked to look at the blood. That
blood was a part of my love.
When he had left, I found in front of the chair,
a bloody rag, from the bandages,
a rag that looked in belonged in garbage;
which I brought up to my lips,
and which I held there for a long time —
the blood of love on my lips.