The Cyprian’s Spring by water only can be
reached, your pedalo moored to a hole in rock
on the slight slap of violet water. Press
your right shoulder to tearing rock along
a narrow path, brush the magenta
of wild gladioli, enter shadow, before which
also pomegranates flower. Swallows fly out,
the Cyprian’s Spring breaks out, so many bright
gallons per cool minute, so many bright
gallons per cool hour, so many gallons
per cool century, so many glittering gallons
per cool aeon.
Swallows fly in, fly out,
in wild figs overhead are doves. Wet ferns
of black filaments slenderer
than the Cyprian’s secret hair move
in the water breeze.
Come here alone,
there is no room for two.
Back in the arrogant
sun, if you upset your pedalo, and tumble
in, expect sharp stinging of purplish-black
sea-urchin spines.
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