This is a poem called "Your Mouth."
Your mouth is a flower that wants to help me.
Your mouth is a garden in Arabia.
It is raining.
I enter the mountain under cheekbones like glaciers.
Your mouth is an old woman weaving the same blanket.
Your mouth sits in the sun dozing,
but the fingers of your mouth weave.
Birds migrate inside your mouth.
When the birds reach the south plain,
they are under the mountain.
They waken the old woman who feeds them the crumb of a yarn.
Arabia, Arabia, Arabia, and she weaves the flower mountain
all summer.