A MIRROR FOR CAROLINE, MY LOVE

She swings thighs longer than the sun,

And turns, to shape my nighttimes with a glance:

Turns lithe legs as if to listen for the jungle

Raining in my forehead, in my eyes. I saw her

A thousand times in Brooklyn in Boston in the dark houses

Of New Haven; she knows her blood is rich with Africa,

And holds a high head into the sun. She speaks a song

And moves a way that Eve forgot, once out of Eden;

I see her walking with the tress; I feel the sap rising.

She speaks no French but has the soul of Paris in her pants.