French Country-Woman At 9:12 In The Universeʼs Morning

By the glow of the moon laughing
so that stallions darker than night
seemed brighter than night.
Like beautiful woman,
a maiden between 25 and 30
(indeed, old for these days
and the wooden doors behind which I write),
whose pupils were piercing
more than the aura of blue around them.

Should it chance that stallions
were dancing in the fields of Loire
while I thought of the lady
back in Limoges
who salted my eyes today?
Who I could love forever,
tonight could be forever –
          you know how that goes, when loving is good.

Come out of your candle lit chamber,
bring the flame outside,
let it become star,
then you would be creator.

Might you marry Cronos?

My tongue is the scarf
that she did never veil.
It is whipping the wind
          bitching through the oaks.

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