and wrinkled like a purple pink, it breathes,

nestling humbly among the still-damp froth

of love that follows the gentle slope

of the white buttocks to its crater’s edge.

Filaments like tears of milk have swept

in the cruel South wind which pushes them

back across little clots of reddish marl

to lose themselves where the slope called them.

My dream has often kissed its opening;

my soul, jealous of physical coitus,

has made this its fawn-coloured

tear-bottle, its nest of sobs.

It is the rapturous olive and the wheedling flute,

the tube from which the heavenly burnt

almond falls, feminine Canaan

enclosed among moistures.