Your slow involute hips cradle the eternal synonym for God.
Entry March 2
Your dauntless, wide, whitish eyes stare,
squeeze lemons in my waters.
I grow furiously ill when seen by other men,
they are lumber yards, sterile. Praise to whatever sifts me
free from the contamination that is not you.
I was taut and dwindling when I let you in. I see you lip move--making
~Then we ate dry brown rye, fruit
and cream, honey in tea.~
When I see grass between cracks in concrete, I shall wish for you.
When Great Star looks directly at me, I shall wish for you.
When my cheeks go red chasing paper planes, I shall wish for you.
When passing elders, rooted down, upbraid the walk, I shall wish for you.