It is cold.
The white moon
is up among her scattered stars—
like the bare thighs of
the Police Sergeant's wife—among
her five children .
Pale shadows lie upon
the frosted grass.
It is midnight, it is still
and it is cold .
White thighs of the sky! a
new answer out of the depths of
my male belly: In April .
In April I shall see again—In April!
the round and perfects thighs
of the Police Sergeant's wife
perfect still after many babies.
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