Max Michelson

From “May in the City”

STIR!

Shake off sleep!

Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—

Pigeons

In a city street.

Suns now dead

Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:

My buried mouth still tastes their fires.

A tender god built your breasts—

Apples of desire;

Their whiteness slakes the throat;

Their form soothes like honey.

Wake up!

Or the song-bird in my heart

Will peck open the shell of your dreams.

Sleep, my own,

Soaring over rivers of fire!

Sleep, my own,

Wading waters of gold!

Joy is in my heart—

It flutters around in my soul.

… Softly—

I hear the rosy dreams …