A slight-boned animal, young. What jungle fruit 
Droops with such grace as you in the subway corner 
In your Saturday suit? Your eyes, wide 
With would-be wakefulness, are dark as plums 
That have the aubergine's lustre, but your skin, 
Smooth as an egg, offers the gentler color 
Of coffee in the bean. You are a morsel 
So fine that you feed the eye as other things, 
Sweet-fleshed, pamper the palate. Now you lean 
Lightly against your mother, in the surrender 
Of weariness still keeping dignity, 
As if, a child, you honorably upheld 
What was too heavy for a child to hold. 
The luminous look is hidden; your eyes are 
Lidded at last. You sleep. The bleak surround 
Crowds you a little. Yet, even in sleep, 
Without defense, darkly your grace proffers 
The grave accusation of innocence.