A sonnet by Peter Stern
Listen, and soft waves of glass tear pink flesh,
A diluted garland wishes to fly,
She holds idle as pain’d salty tears thresh,
They fill her ears: spirits ask her to die.
A maiden travels down a screaming brook,
Her crack’d palms reach for a blue salvation,
Of our hearts, sin ‘twas the only shard she took,
Must we o’er look the hid’n thorns in her skin?
Open lips as pink as dianthuses,
A purity envied by Earth, herself,
Eyelashes corrupt’d by dewdrops like his,
Thin fingers lie her on a muddy shelf.
Look aslant a brook, there leans a willow,
Filter down, resides the virgin cargo.