The Moon pulls at the pliant parts:
Her spine, shoulder blades, sacs of breast
The ants crawl across her neck,
connect to each other
Perhaps they mistake her skin for a lime —
as her color cannot be called
Anything but ‘unripe.’
Snowdrop swans arc their necks into her ear
To elude the rain,
add themselves
To the etude
Of her green figure in the garden