As lemongrass holds the river's first shimmer of morning light,
you possess me. Drifting in the marsh, my fingertips dipping in the water,
    like a luminous blue god,
you have become an idea that I can no longer doubt without proving my devotion. Yes,
you hold me,
you hold me, you hold me as wood holds the frame of a house,
    or as iron holds the cables of a bridge. If I were a Buddhist, this possession
would send me straight to Hell.
But I am not a Buddhist. I am only a man who holds you,
    or at least the thought of it, which is no difference at all.