ÉTUDE
THAT WHITE HAND poised
Above the ivory keys
Will soon descend to
Shatter
The equable surface of my reverie.
To what abortion
Will the silence give birth ?
Noon of moist heat and the moan
Of raping bees,
And light like a sluice of molten gold
On the satiate, petitioning leaves.
In yellow fields
Mute agony of reapers.
Does the metallic horizon
Give release ?
Well, higher,
against the wider void the immaculate
angels of lust
Lean
on the swanbreasts of heaven.
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