Juniper

Juniper holds to the moon

a girl adoring a bracelet;

as the hills draw up their knees

they throw off their jasmine girdles.

You are a forest of game,

a thought of nights in procession,

you tread through the bitter fires

of the nasturtium.

I decorate you to a smell of apples,

I divide you among the voices

of owls and cavaliering cocks

and woodpigeons monotonously dry.

I hang lanterns on your mouth

and candles from your passionate crucifix,

and bloody leaves of the virginia

drip with their scarlet oil.

There is a pike in the lake

whose blue teeth eat the midnight stars

piercing the water’s velvet skin

and puncturing your sleep.

I am the pike in your breast,

my eyes of clay revolve the waves

while cirrus roots and lilies grow

between our banks of steep embraces.