The poem
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.