It was a fragrant December. Satin-voiced.
The earth launched from its anchorhold,
In many lungs all at once
Turned vertically the shape of a mouth.

Showings of the host-like moon
Flickered between book and door,
Most present when about to be lost,
Semi-lunar, fringed and watching.

Her head was held by four different hands,
Four coffins perfectly nested,
Tied with nine silk ribbons
That rubbed charcoal into small cuts

And on one knee, a cross.
Downwind, only a narrow shelf
Of membrane circled his eyes
In black, like smaller baskets

Full of earth, with a spill
Of oil rich in water:
The bee returning from a nuptial flight
Emitting his floral odour.