An Amazon running through the wood.
She glides along the weft and wend
and leaps the waters black as soot,
while, after and before, there comes
a golden hound, bemuddied and unbound,
amidst the racket and the croak
of every frog and toad.
A man, wandering through the wood.
He questions as he goes:
Who yearns?
Who aches to say, “Hello?”
Who wonders—
“How pretty are her hands? Her feet?”
“How sweet would be the sound?”
Stark, the moon stares.
Birds nestle in the gloom.
Full of eyes: the silent cliffs.
She trips and falls so near to him,
he hears the groan come out of her.
Are you okay?
“Are… you OK?”
Too stunned, she cannot say.
But he can only stand and stare,
destined to refrain:
“Are you OK?”
How sweet the anguish
carried on that strain
that brings her to her feet again,
while at her side a cherub of a sort
lays muddy licks upon her hand.
An Amazon running through the wood.
Questions in the dark.
Stark, the moon stares.
Birds nestle in the gloom.
Full of eyes: the silent cliffs.
Leaves beneath his feet.