The moon kneeling in a patch of gothic dawn I think it is a basin of killed plaster I think it is the cire perdue a certain marrow of the light a herd of violins I see a dirge of fingerprints in the undiminished air the virgin and the blessed breast of her like reliefs cut from marble of Carrara The moon I hear the canoodle in the secret courts of sheikhs I hear the diadem at dawn her hands bearing we will never know what a tambourine loneliness the first dagger ends to a long forbidden dream
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