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The Cold Night

by
 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 .
.
.
No answer.
Pale shadows lie upon the frosted grass.
One answer: 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.
Oya!

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