Within your arches, I am moon and corn.
    Church where winter crows, church of souls
    that wear shoes, church of birds playing hopscotch.
    My tribes and your thighs' rivers are one.
    O altar of horses and sweat,

    Everyday, my earth, I kiss your seven continents
    and marry your rivers. Your fish, your birds
    my language at dawn. Let there be no secrets
    between my mountains and your cities.

    There were, my trumpet, at least seven directions between us,
    the wolves exiled just east of your hair's allegories
    and the western corner of your shoulder
    where birds come with their sirens to celebrate
    our corn's anniversary. How easily along the coast

    Like a bride who weeps for her country's exiled palm trees,
    I am honey and morning.
    I kiss your sea's red intemperance.
    For the scroll's pleasure,
    I offer corn and her evening.

    Come fill my ears with the flowers' seas.
    Fill me with valleys of markets
    where the only vagrants are cherries
    and oranges and kisses that proselytize
    from their shoulders.

    The river mason was there.
    The woman who had built a heart
    with no bitter lemons was there too.
    So was the horse that had built the town

    When it is evening and the sheep knock at the door,
    I know you are near,
    that you have jumped out of the corn
    to read the century and her seven grains.

    Tulip of my dreams, tulip of my emptiness,
    tulip which follows the moon
    that rides off with the wolf's head.
    O horses and linen, buried, soundly asleep