Drawing Love

(a sonnet)


I draw, watching you, the skin, the pure colour without skin,
without paint, only through eyes, without miracle, only
realisation
that I feel, that I mark, that hurts engraved in paper.

They are not an image, the lines, these exalting sketches.
It is climbing a stair to reach
the gaze,
tremulous, of the pupils, of the iris avid for the instant.

Impossible to retain a dream like this without matter or object
with no document or matrix of the very colour, the exact being,
created with the traced drawing a real, but ethereal.

I invent the secret of an adjective shadow,
and draw already your face, the entire body, without knowing
that I draw to love you and that art while drawing is subjective.