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.