Obscur Et Fronce
Dark, wrinkled as a purple pink,
by Arthur Rimbaud
It breathes, it nestles in that bed of moss,
Still damp from love, which hugs the slope,
The white thighs' slope, to crater's heart.
Threads, gossamer, milky tears
Wept, wept, in scouring wind
That drove them on clots of scarlet scree
Till they tumbled on the edge, were gone.
My dreams touch kisses, kisses to the gate.
Soul envies couplings of the flesh,
Its tear-bottle this, its nest of sobs.
Ecstatic olive! Seductive flute!
Throat sucking almond-sweet sublime!
Moss-circled, female, promised land!