Illicit Dreams


Carthusians scrape, bring forth their fruits, snap them from Creator's bed.
   Brown, and brown, and brown again scowls at my toes,
       looks away from watered colors dazzling on fine silk.
   I am blues and wines...and purples.  He is grass and earth,
                  cowslips and cowls.

Ah! monk, that our clothes were away, for then we are both
   the high-born of God...

       and our colors blend to kiss the night.
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