I grew so stony, so polished within,
I was constantly taking closed flowers away,
trying to gather my life into a single
act of vigil remote from praise.
I have never dared glimpse your night-time spine,
your heavy, soothed body high
in my dreams, or held you as if for sale
everywhere I want you to be.
My pupil would be stunned
by the cold weight of your breath,
your everquietness, your minimum of folds,
your source of coolness turned into gold.
There is dependable rain
paving your dubious roads and, more
illusory still, an hour when light
of all kinds plays upon it,
while air with its superior intelligence
passes by on love's way with a pleasing
lightness of foot; and time, foreign to our
planet, pungent as it was, has been bloated
without a beyond—as if in hospital
at the height of summer the bits
and pieces of evening have fallen
to the appetite's sandy floor.