by James Merrill
The site relives its tender monotone
In the begging children's bodies, thin and dark.
They even sleep here, watched over by a far dog's bark
Setting its faint pockmark onto the stone
Up out of which every morning small temples have grown
Like organs, those that nourish or beget,
At the onset of pubescence yet
More longed-for and more alien than our own.
Note: A recitation can be heard here.