Learning the Language

The diphthongs are honey, the dentals are resin
Between the teeth: and, tasting, I can see:
This country comes into my standing car
Like the scent of orange blossoms,
Like dust blown from the plow,
Like the woman who asks—and enters, as the barrier rises
From the crossing and naked rails while one
Slate-dark train flows from the station
Away toward emptier plains, more pallid
Distance piled with mountains of haze.
Under the lintel of cloth over her brow the eyes,
That were keeping their counsel, black as a cave whose own darkness is its door, change:
In the blank of their shadow, a brazier is breathed on.