I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a <br />temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest. <br /> <br />For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the <br />world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I <br />cover her against any hurt. <br /> <br />Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her <br />pillow with singing. <br /> <br />Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at <br />early morning. <br /> <br />-- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled <br />place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and <br />all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions. <br /> <br />O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon <br />her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . . <br />where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.<br /><br />Kenneth Patchen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-are-not-many-kingdoms-left/
