WE T O G E T H E R

How pure you are by sunlight or by fallen night,

how triumphal and boundless your orbit of white,
and your bosom of bread, high in climate,
your crown of black trees, beloved,
and your lone-animal nose, nose of a wild sheep
that smells of shadow and of precipitous, tyrannical flight.

Now, what splendid weapons my hands,

how worthy their blade of bone and their lily nails,
and the placing of my face and the rental of my soul
are situated in the center of earthly force.
How pure my gaze of nocturnal influence,
a fall of dark eyes and ferocious urge,
my symmetrical statue with twin legs
mounts toward moist stars each morning,
and my exiled mouth bites the flesh and the grape,
my manly arms, my tattooed chest
on which the hair takes root like a tin wing,
my white face made for the sun’s depth,
my hair made of rituals, of black minerals,
my forehead, penetrating as a blow or a road,
my skin of a grownup son, destined for the plow,
my eyes of avid salt, of rapid marriage,
my tongue soft friend of dike and ship,
my teeth like a white clockface, of systematic equity,
the skin that makes in front of me an icy emptiness
and in back of me revolves, and flies in my eyelids,
and folds back upon my deepest stimulus,
and grows toward the roses in my fingers,
in my chin of bone and in my feet of richness.

And you, like a month of star, like a fixed kiss,

like a structure of wing, or the beginning of autumn,
girl, my advocate, my amorous one,
light makes its bed beneath your big eyelids,
golden as oxen, and the round dove
often makes her white nests in you.

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