72
NINE POEMS
IV
WINTER MOON
A little white thistle moon
Blown over the cold crags and fens:
A little white thistle moon
Blown across the frozen heather.
AUTUMN NIGHT
The moon is as complacent as a frog.
She sits in the sky like a blind white stone,
And does not even see Love
As she caresses his face
With her contemptuous light.
She reaches her long white shivering fingers into the bowels of men.
Her tender superfluous probing into all that pollutes
Is like the immodesty of the mad.
She is a mad woman holding up her dress
So that her white belly shines.
Haughty,
Impregnable,
Ridiculous,
Silent and white as a debauched queen,
Her ecstasy is that of a cold and sensual child.
She is Death enjoying Life,
Innocently,
Lasciviously.
