What partial dark, inverting on the sea
A melon with a rind of indigo,
What shadow in that riper night beyond,
Will hide the final dark I face from birth,
Who in the create darkness now my skin
See uncreated nothingness to come,
And in the tomb of the mosquito-net
Seek out a sleep that dreams itself enough;
Who sleep, and am the nude somnambulist
For whom the flesh becomes sufficient cause
When, risen in a sky no longer night,
La Belle Diane sinks toward the dark she leaves,
And of my body, naught that will not die,
Conceives the crescent margin that is life.
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