Her body is not so white as 
anemone petals nor so smooth--nor 
so remote a thing. It is a field 
of the wild carrot taking 
thefield by force; the grass 
does not raise above it. 
Here is no question of whiteness, 
white as can be, with a purple mole 
at the center of each flower. 
Each flower is a hand's span 
of her whiteness. Wherever 
his hand has lain there is 
a tiny purple blossom under his touch 
to which the fibres of her being 
stem one by one, each to its end, 
until the whole field is a 
white desire, empty, a single stem, 
a cluster, flower by flower, 
a pious wish to whiteness gone over-- 
or nothing.