There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left

 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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