Of all the blackest crows
tethered by tears
to no gilt veranda,
you are the one I see—

of all the olive-scented caves
ticking with pearled fatigue
and unfaltering touch,
you are the one I sleep in—

your arms open and open,
unfolding the grains
of thousands of devoured trees
wailing behind mirrors,

your eyes are designed
for regretlessness
and sweet ruminations
and the rest of ancients,

your belly is the belly
of dragonflies and lunar roses
where the eaten dance in groups
of no number,

your mouth is the mouth
where none of the planets
is untrue, where the arias
of wolves and rain swallow themselves—

Afternoon,
of all the plain yellow hours
loosed from the night
in mouthfuls of red apple,
you are the one I eat.