At Night

I think at night my hands are mad,

for they follow the irritant texture of darkness

continually carving the sad leaf of your mouth

in the thick black bark of sleep.

And my finger-joints are quick with insanity,

springing with lost amazement

through a vast waste of dreams

and forming frames of desire

around the thought of your eyes.

By day, the print of your body

is like a stroke of sun on my hands,

and the choir of your blood

goes chanting incessantly

through the echoing channels of my wrists.

But I am lost in my hut

when the stars are out,

for my palms have a catlike faculty of sight,

and the surface of every minute

is a swinging image of you.