She stands up and she looks over her shoulder
toward the dawn. The grass is as high as her knees
and feels the back of calves, it seems her shoulders
are writing out a script across the tall trees
with diacritical marks. I take her sinuous neck
into my hand, make music behind her knees
and with her thighs. I don't know if she expects
to see her god in the Sun that rises, the bones
that inform her body. Between the twisting necks
of oaks and maples is the Moon: white as bone
and nude before me. I am revealing her shoulder
in the art I realize, in the mysterious tones
of voice she inspires of me. O serpentine lover!
move your lips on me like a dance of shoulders.
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