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Kenneth Patchen - There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left
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I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a
temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest.

  For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the
world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I
cover her against any hurt.

  Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her
pillow with singing.

  Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at
early morning.

  — Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled
place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and
all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions.

  O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon
her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . .
where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.
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