Let you find my body,
Beneath the rowan tree;
Let you find my body
Here in the nightly eaves.

This, my body,
Sits upon the lily pad.
Waits under the arc of undead Rome;
Shepherd this form of liquid glass.

Make music with my hair,
Make solitude
For your lacquerwares;
Such objects will burden my angelic hair
Like fire to the birchbark.

Make little movement,
Make little step; let you find my body
With the gentleness of a widow,
Quiet and bent in her and her god’s tête-à-tête.

Let you find my body.
Let you find my body,
Before the hunger is swept;
Before the loon’s wild weeping
Becomes the morn;

Sweet like Bosc, the boscage opens,
And there the meadowlark wings.

Let you find me,
Before dawn steals me outright,
Before I eat my tail and disappear;
Seek my body.

I’ll give sign, if you are near.