El libro de la sexualidad

The pages of all the books are blank.

The late-night readers at the town library

Make no complaints about that.

They lift their heads solely

To consult the sign commanding silence,

Before they lick their finger,

Look sly, appear to be dozing off,

As they pinch the corner of the paper

Ever-so-carefully,

While turning the heavy page.

In the yellow puddle of light,

Under the lamp with green shade,

The star charts are all white

In the big astronomy atlas

Lying open between my bare arms.

At the checkout desk, the young Betelgeuse

Is painting her lips red

Using my sweating forehead as a mirror.

Her roving tongue

Is a long-tailed comet in the night sky.