Poetry Archives

It is cold.  The white moon
is up among her scattered stars—
like the bare thighs of
the Police Sergeant’s wife—among
her five children . . .
No answer.  Pale shadows lie upon
the frosted grass.  One answer:
It is midnight, it is still
and it is cold . . . !
White thights of the sky! a
new answer out of the depths of
my male belly:  In April . . .
In April I shall see again—In April!
the round and perfects thighs
of the Police Sergeant’s wife
perfect still after many babies.
Oya!