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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!


Submitted by Bob

Added: 5 May 2003 | Last Read: 10 Jan 2009 1:12 AM | Viewed: 4255 times

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