Winter is past, rain is gone; flowers appear. The voice of the turtle is heard; the Bradford pear tree puts forth her white blossoms. Tramps with tender plums smell good. Arise and come to the glory holes. Let me see your countenance, let me hear your voice.
Who comes out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumed with mesquite? Behold his leather bed; threescore valiant men are around it. Every man has his handgun upon his thigh because of fear of the night.
Night prowler made himself pillars of purple leather, covering love, for the sons of sunset. He brings me into his chambers: we rejoice as he beats me with his mouth: love is better than cigarette burns. He has ravished my heart; with the chain of his neck.
His name is as soothing crabocide poured forth.
I am pungent, but comely, as the brief comet of worship, as the curtains of leather.
Look at me not because I am pungent but because the sun has looked upon me.
Where you feed, where you become the blue of noon: I turn flocks into companions.
We will make you master with studs of silver.
While night prowler sits at his table, my corset sends forth the smell of my myrrh.; he lies all night amid my constellation of keratoid scars. Constellation of keratoid scars are like twin feral piglets, which feed among the lilies.
My deceased cowboy is to me is a pair of boots in the regiment: guarded, repaired, shared after slaughter.
Pleasant: our bed is green.
As pear trees, so is my cowboy among the sons. Under his shadow, his fruit was inedible.
Comfort me with blossoms: for I am sick of love.
Night prowler's left hand is under my head, and his right hand does embrace me.
He says, "Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away."
My cowboy feeds among the tiger lilies.
Shadows fled day break, return, my cowboy, and like an aurochs upon the plain.
I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into sunset.
His teeth are like a cult of shorn children, rebaptized.
His lips are like a scarlet thread.
How fair is his love! how much better is his love than cigarette burns and the smell of crabocides. The smell of his garments is like the smell of the grave.
I sleep, but my heart wakes: it is the voice of my cowboy that knocks, saying, Open to me, my defiled: for my head is filled with natron and onions.
I have taken off my coat. I have washed my feet. My cowboy puts his hand by the hole of the wall, and my bowels were moved for him. My fingers with sweet smells of damp myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.
Sons of Sunset, if you find my prowler, tell him, that I am sick of love.
His hands are turquoise laced with gold: his belly is as bright walrus ivory scrimshawed.
His legs are as pillars of granite.
His mouth is most sweet: he feeds among the tiger lilies.
Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me: your hair is as a cult of teenagers
The night prowler is held in a constellation of keratoid scars like a cluster of grapes. His stature
is like to a redwood tree with a tunnel cut through.
The roof of his mouth like the best cigarette burns for my cowboy, that goes down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.
I am a wall, and my constellation of keratoid scars like a glory hole for compulsion is strong as death.
