Where the shadows are really the body,
Bishop wrote, as the pale face of the moon
shone down. But the word in the mouth is full, is round,
its middle the second bite of an apple:
much longer, more brave having broken the skin,
but soft and edgeless with the white of flesh.
And it is white, perhaps pigmented pale blue
or other cool shade, but still white at the heart.
Insomnia. It should mean small white flower.
Something of a thistle growing in rocky soil,
blooming tight and always upward, reaching,
at odds with the lazy lilt of its hothouse cousins.
White. Not the red a king cannot wash from his hands,
awake, and the blood in the basin.