My earthen bride
whose lovers sink their blackstick fingers
whose thighs gutter the sailing world
whose mouth strains the air of impurity
whose whims are silk-quartz unbound from clay
dendrites of gold and of moss marking their surface
whose ankles strain above the piazza loreto cobbles
whose mouth is smooth agate, and births onyx
whose fingers are rosemary and blood
whose vision coloured and colourless as mirth
gags our lies half-spoken, our helpless, virtuous lies,
our lies meaning well, or meaning ill:
I search, I am searching for you, at dawn at dusk
among the thrusting mushrooms, in the wet grasses
along the sandy courses, the shilling-edged ravines
through the prickly acacia, the boxthorn and rose-apple
among the grey horses, the black and the bay
along their steaming flanks, avoiding the carnelian eye
seeking to touch your forehead with my partisan thumbs
though I am worn thin, the sun moving steadily from me
and sweetness becoming the vaguer emotion...
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