The firing pattern of the raphe

Once upon a time there were Two English poems, by Borges... How can I hold you with? My version, my offering.
This is my bet. I'm here, offering my madness, my innocence, the insomnia and the insanity, the apple blossoms and the glass vases, the silent orchid, oh child of mine!
My weakness, my bunch of temptations, my tired hands dressed in black, my hypnagogic images... a cup of coffee. The whisper over your chest, dances that the breath dance, the nudity of my eyes. The taste of Mahler's 3rd Symphony, the color of Shostakovich's 1917, the firing pattern of the raphe...
I offer you the dizziness of my marine's compass, the beat of the thalamus, the puzzle of my black outs...