Legs: An Ecstasy for the Huntress Diana

To song I sing,
to brown of leg I sing.
To spring in foot
and brown far up
I sing.

Or sweetened with a talc.
Or dried with towels.
Or troweled like so much mortar
after swims.

Or carried in my arms all hanging out
like liquid gold
just issued from a spout.

Or I can see them swinging in a swing
or held straight out
while straightening stockings on;

or folded on a couch
or razored down
and left like raisins in the sun
to brown.

But most of all
like sleeping children lie,
two twins at peace and peaceful.
Two long sighs.