Charles Simic (1938-) 

I love breasts, hard 
Full breasts, guarded 
By a button. 

They come in the night. 
The bestiaries of the ancients 
Which include the unicorn 
Have kept them out. 

Pearly, like the east 
An hour before sunrise, 
Two ovens of the only 
Philosopher's stone 
Worth bothering about. 

They bring on their nipples 
Beads of inaudible sighs, 
Vowels of delicious clarity 
For the little red schoolhouse of our mouths. 

Elsewhere, solitude 
Makes another gloomy entry 
In its ledger, misery 
Borrows another cup of rice. 

They draw nearer: Animal 
Presence. In the barn 
The milk shivers in the pail. 

I like to come up to them 
From underneath, like a kid 
Who climbs on a chair 
To reach the forbidden jam. 

Gently, with my lips, 
Loosen the button. 
Have them slip into my hands 
Like two freshly poured beer-mugs. 

I spit on fools who fail to include 
Breasts in their metaphysics 
Star-gazers who have not enumerated them 
Among the moons of the earth ... 

They give each finger 
Its true shape, its joy: 
Virgin soap, foam 
On which our hands are cleansed. 

And how the tongue honors 
These two sour buns, 
For the tongue is a feather 
Dipped in egg-yolk. 

I insist that a girl 
Stripped to the waist 
Is the first and last miracle, 

That the old janitor on his deathbed 
Who demands to see the breasts of his wife 
For the one last time 
Is the greatest poet who ever lived. 

O my sweet yes, my sweet no, 
Look, everyone is asleep on the earth. 

Now, in the absolute immobility 
Of time, drawing the waist 
Of the one I love to mine, 

I will tip each breast 
Like a dark heavy grape 
Into the hive 
Of my drowsy mouth.