A corpse empty and waxen as the comb
The bees have left behind. The Upper Chalk
Deposited perhaps 80 million years ago. Her
Incredible desire grows in her belly
Like a precious stone. The winds flow
With the noises of clashing swords as the tiles fall,
And with the noise of nostrils whistling
Beneath armour. The flower welds
Its petals together for the night, a little seed
Of nectar spurts from a gland and glows
Within its dark pavilion. Everything
Inside us begins to rejoice. There is a soft
Milky breath from this well. The young girls
With the flapping of their skirts like wings of moths
Modulate their perfumes. The quiet volcano full
Of dry balsamic sand-dunes drifting,
Forming and reforming, flux and reflux;
The glassy grains accept the light of trains that pass,
Exchange lights within the grain, bouncing
Rays from mirror to mirror. As I enter sleep,
The baby’s babble becomes melodious specch.
Many people bleed invisibly from their clothes,
Unfelt, unseen. Gnats: eyelashes
With hardly a face. It rained hard all last night
And polished the shit off the streets,
And the fine old delabole slate silvery.
A dew of diamonds in the dunes
As the train passes, in its necklaces,
A galaxy of stars in the lenses of the fog
As the train butts its way through. OM OM
Goes the lighthouse foghorn, and the full moon leaps
Out of the low clouds, full syllable, shining
In an Arizonian desert jewelry
Of dry balsamic voices, shining syllable
On black wings that has made itself real
And solid by long pronouncing, whiter than chalk,
Older than chalk, older than the chalk tombs,
Than the necessity for tombs.
The body utters clothes like echo-soundings,
Slow woven syllables over the years of fashion
As the flower welds its petals fast over its balsams,
White with all the colours of sleep.
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