ALFRED KREYMBORG
361
Could I
blow morning glories—-
could I
lip clouds—
I'd sound the silence
her hands bring to me.
Had I
the yester sun—
had I
the morrow's—
brush them like cymbals,
I'd then sound the noise.
IV
HER BODY
Her body gleams
like an altar candle—
white in the dark—
and modulates
to voluptuous bronze—
bronze of a sea—
under the flame.
