The Cold Night

 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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