On Looking Into The Eyes Of A Demon Lover
Here are two pupils / whose moons of black
In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full
Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and balls,
Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes
Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,
Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :
Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,
Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.
Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds
To strew like confetti
Under the feet of
This market of melon-eating
Fiesta-goers.
Here are two pupils / whose moons of black
But I would rather be horizontal. / I am not a tree with my root in the soil
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. / Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Out here there are no hearthstones, / Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.