From 'Logos' by the Dutch poet Rozalie Hirs

LOVE SONG

Now the middle of the night

dubs me a knight in

a dozen hours become 0

and the sentry gets the word,

I shoot at golden speed

through the wooden bead

in the rose – a mirror-box that lies

in a crimson disguise,

with sword and grail too,

my prince consort, for you,

bearing alive our fire.

We drink from the hands

of the moon, her strands

a string of milk teeth –

the surface a pool gleaming

towards me: Language glides

into our mouths and resides

in the change of the heart,

the wounded senses: eye

for eye, tongue for tongue –

the lung of love. With no lead

the light plumbs death upon death.