Warning: Mature Themes
I have buried in the grass follicles
the loose straw, the fresh yellow of it
while my eyes look on.
This is a ritual honouring the sorrow
young plants
undergo. I have planted my eyes
in the waste reeds and their trembling. No.
No. You are supple and powerful.
When the night comes I will wear you in a crown.
. . . .
The tones of the lapped waves on thighs,
marble sand, your bronze.
Moon lapis of ocean,
come to where your fire is
and we will lie out at ease together.
We will heave our black sighs.
And I will tell you what it meant to be a person
like Dawn.
For you have no attachments.
For we can stay here as long as we like.
The schoolyard of girlhood:
broad, placid, vulpine.
Was there caste to assert?
There was air to love. Breezes
shook open vaults, dusted rooves.
I remember myself as a leaf
carried about by others,
not even a hyacinth. My loves
were older than I was.
Where, darling, would I place you?
. . . .
If you arose from the dusk-yard of my youth
what would you be?
I ask you to make love.
