If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week ... They embrace until exhaustion The twin doves That rest or fly upon your breast, They travel the distances of your legs, They coil in the light of your waist ... A pale blonde went by like a golden plant swaying her gifts. And my mouth went like a wave discharging on her breast lightningbolts of blood ... Home