Her body is not so white as



anemony petals nor so smooth—nor



so remote a thing. It is a field



of the wild carrot taking



the field by force; the grass



does not raise above it.



Here is no question of whiteness,



white as can be, with a purple mole



at the center of each flower.



Each flower is a hand’s span



of her whiteness. Wherever



his hand has lain there is



a tiny purple blemish. Each part



is a blossom under his touch



to which the fibres of her being



stem one by one, each to its end,



until the whole field is a



white desire, empty, a single stem,



a cluster, flower by flower,



a pious wish to whiteness gone over—



or nothing.





