Kundera on Kafka

She is plain in her speech and
ordinary to touch
straight hair and, of course,
dark eyes-- wide and curious--nameless,
but not anonymous.
She is the body electric
I sing.

Repetition.

What little I remember, I remember often.
The slip work of time ever present
cuts the hours, smaller
smaller.
A fertile silence,
A beautiful you.

Release.

And the slip work of time
ever present, ever present until
A beautiful you.

Release.