Into the sea-beds, which are by now browning,
On the sun-swept hill of my evening birthday.
My neck like chalk snapping at the twist
Of a morning wind, so quickly kissed.
Wracked as water, cast off by my fire-dry hand
Weaving satin fingers again, and again.
You my fancy parasol, embroidered with milk lace,
Lay down your lovely traps. Your cheekbones, the mast
Steering the winds that softly rubbed me today,
The day I am no bother. But still
You paint our liquid gates with sweet eyes.
Such a slow gift, a stem in the sea, laying
Down in a dim bed near the close of the year.
You the thickest root, dancing and bone-light as the stars,
Toe-pointed, stomach-stretched women made of light,
Skating through the sad film of the raging bay.
Your grape-green leaves on the twigs of days
Spark sharp, new colors in the moth cave.
For this palette, this young rock, your bubble kiss,
I give you waves, which rock again, and again.
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