​He tips too much, that god who sits across
from you, his gestures of extravagance,
they bring me down, they bring down tongue and sense,
resounding with my longing, I am lost
within the mirror of his eyes, he eyes
my fleeting glances, tripping feet, as chairs
tip over, coins resound, or laughter – they’re
all turning to enjoy my wan surprise –
yet revelry runs fiercely through my senses
as through the burning house of poetry
my mouth lit up with dazzling fire, more free
for all my loss of words than all the tenses
from subjunctive to the sea can sing –
too much, I say, one day I’ll say something