Classic Poem

Her breasts, white nuns
Before her eyes—
O hands be
As the smile on a child's face.
Her knees, pale fruit
Whose seed grew from a wish.
Her thighs, boughs of apple blossoms—
O wind blow not too strong.
Her belly, fairy hill of snow.
Her hair, sunlight
In long pale grass limp with dew.
Her voice, sea-mist, wine, flying birds,
White clouds,
Whispers between earth and sky in spring.

This, my love—
She whom I carry
As a bell carries its tongue.
This, my love—
She who makes my days
A ride in barren fields
That have rich crops
After I pass.
This, my love—
She who makes my nights
The building of a temple
Where the kingly come as pilgrims.

Her coming, the falling of rain
In parched valleys.
When she first stood before me
Her nakedness put a distance between us—
The distance a lonely man feels
Between himself and the stars.
My eyes were heavy
As a man against the wind.
My flesh, a wall
I fought to break through.

She, my love, comes to me,
Since when I am gay as the dead are gay
With throats too full to sing.