The saphircal sky, empirical in its
glaze and spotted blaze of diamond stars,
thus far has managed only to soothe me.
Crest of kings, unseen, unnamed, bowed
about the head yet never worn, this
sullen brow becomes me.
Her face in this wind is hidden in
shroud; no cloud to doubt the sky.
(What eye to pierce what veil!)
Her neck’s obscured, to no avail.
(I wander through the shades, and from her
bracken breasts draw not but dust)
There is a tomb’s door cast wide in the sand.
Land, the one pride, must store such wombs, or be bare.
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