From that inexhaustible larder
Money offers
But with the stores depleted
It now appears there’s only one well
Here that never runs dry,
Just one bulb in this house
That never goes out
Even in the hoarse, bluey
Hour when dawn spreads
Toward the horizon’s
Bald patch of trees,
When my earliest chorister
Leaps in the crib
And begins her orisons
Reaching out for this flawed
And dotted coastline
On which she’ll press her lips
To drink not milk
But time through a dark
Nipple.