Jean Toomer (26 December 1894 – 30 March 1967 / Washington D.C.)
Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Holding her lips apart.
Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon,
Miracle made vesper-keeps,
And I'll be sleeping soon.
Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters whtere the moonwaves start,
Radiant, resplendently she gleams,
Lips pressed against my heart.
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