notice the convulsed orange inch of moon

perching on this silver minute of evening.

We'll chose the way to the forest—no offense

to you, white town whose spires softly dare.

Will take the house less wisping rune

of road lazily carved on sharpening air.

Fields lying miraculous in violent silence

fill with microscopic whithering

. . .(that's the Black People, cherie,

who live under stones.)  Don't be afraid

and we will pass the simple ugliness

of exact tombs, where a large road crosses

and all the people are minutely dead.

Then you will slowly kiss me