Sleep — In some sort of damp vernacular
she speaks and whether she is widow
or the mother of all things she slips
in discrete and whispers a name: yours.
And there it begins — the mists
that tongue the willow trees,
the bats and starlings swirl, my darling,
she is the air in your pockets,
the cyclone of your hips, the beasts
that rise from your fingertips, who
with each vociferous bulge emerge
whole, black as licorice cane and twice
as acrid. They come, one upon one:
the toads and tadpoles, the asp
and all such amber as to bear them,
the land upon which they dwell,
bracken—thick and shouldered.
And from them too the beetles,
mountainous and singularly moved.
And from them too the dune
upon which you stand and beckon:
Come — come, my darling, for here
is where you’ll find me, as all of life
estranged cannot mend our love asunder.
Here, wait! Down in the brackish pool
I’ve made of your eyes, drink there —
take such bitters as quenching and know,
that all we are forever quakes.