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There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left

by
 I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders.
In a temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest.
For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the world.
With the morning breath of the snow leopard I cover her against any hurt.
Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her pillow with singing.
Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at early morning.
-- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions.
O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon her shoulders .
.
.
the lips of the moon moving there .
.
.
where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.

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