Concert Party

That white hand poised
above the ivory keys
will soon descend to
the equable surface of my reverie.

To what abortion
will the silence give birth?

Noon of moist heat and the moan
of raping bees
and light like a sluice of molten gold
on the satiate petitioning leaves.

In yellow fields
mute agony of reapers.

Does the metallic horizon
give release?

Yes: higher,
against the wider void the immaculate
angels of lust
on the swanbreasts of heaven.
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