Stir—
Shake off sleep.
Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—
Pigeons
In a city street.
Suns now dead
Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:
My buried mouth still tastes their fires.
A tender god built your breasts—
Apples of desire;
Their whiteness slakes the throat;
Their form soothes like honey.
Wake up!
Or the song-bird in my heart
Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
. . . . . .
Sleep, my own,
Soaring over rivers of fire.
Sleep, my own,
Wading waters of gold.
Joy is in my heart—
It flutters around in my soul.
… Softly—
I hear the rosy dream …