If I might be tall negroes in procession,
Carrying each of them a rib of you,
And a cannibal-king bearing your collar-bones,
One in my right hand, one in my left,
And touching my forehead with them at slow intervals,
Might I not be too comforted
To weep?

If my love had only consumed you,
Not left you unconsumed,
Might not the moon have silvered me with content,
Oiled me like the long edges of palms?