a white desire

growing wild and welcomed in my back garden

queen-anne’s lace

her body is not so white as

anemony petals nor so smooth—nor

so remote a thing. it is a field

of the wild carrot taking

the field by force; the grass

does not raise above it.

here is no question of whiteness,

white as can be, with a purple mole

at the center of each flower.

each flower is a hand’s span

of her whiteness. wherever

his hand has lain there is

a tiny purple blemish. each part

is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibres of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,

until the whole field is a

white desire, empty, a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over—

or not

william carlos williams