It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children … No answer. Pale shadows lie upon the frosted grass. One answer: It is midnight, it is still and it is cold … ! White thighs of the sky! a new answer out of the depths of my male belly: In April … In April I shall see again—In April! the round and perfect thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife perfect still after many babies. Oya!