Mite ti so
                                                        a docili carezze
                                                        che la mano mi sogna
                                                        in dolci infanzie.

                                                       Mi disquama
                                                       il velluto dei tuoi occhi
                                                       l'assurdo vizio
                                                       in echi di pensiero.

                                                       Non più pena mi punge:
                                                       dall'aspro riso
                                                       a naufragati sensi,
                                                       alle tue labbra
                                                       in favole di sogno
                                                       si discioglie di labili coralli
                                                       l'arso narciso
                                                       a divorarsi solo.