He stands by water calm
as an early summer melon
grown to bobbing head.
To drink, not a moment’s job
of played conceit lazy
in the head’s reflection,
but the good draught
long as all life flowing
through granite teeth,
through miles of hot canals
past islands dark and struck aloud:
a tide of whispering embraces,
a red corpuscle sea,
to one world-wide tail
lassoing the air.
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