I Know the Land Where the Lemon-Trees Flower
I know the land where the lemon-trees flower;
wild canarys of the teary beebrush drown.
Rest with me! O' darkened orchards of the hour.
Rest with me under the clutter of your swirling bones-
the earth is showing us how to make something round.
O' buxom flower, how your luster sways ones
eyes from the gurgling mud; I of withered breath
entreat your pretty nectar with my lips
that i may taste and reflect in death
my soused exterior enclosed in your hips.
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