it is the dawn of the avenue.

          the children sing rain
and the fire i burn glowers.

o, it is when the twilight came
i was speaking then, to you,
all the trees beauteously bring
you to me and our hands handle
the hours full of moon.

the patter of the rain they sing
and the bundle of woe i bring
by the avenues traced by
girl-graces, strewn loveliness of
basket hollows and singsongy
feelingfulness — look at what the
wind does to the berries,
and ourselves in brightened plaudit;
hands no playthings, i touch her
silken thighs and death peers
no longer; only yawns in the speechless
distance, frequent dream-pauses
drenched in sweat of nightly heat
  your mouth tasting chrysanthemums.
luminance of voice blinds the shadowy
  corner, light lifts, god pulses in
the deepest, most final mirror of ourselves, supreme over all and i,
   in the most radiant green of all earth,
smiling at my lover's body.