After licking a salt stone, the speaker seems to let go of ordinary limits: they imagine running wildly like a mushroom cap swept through dark rapids, then leaping up an oak ladder to circle the crescent moon. The mood is ecstatic and slightly unhinged, as though the taste of salt releases a burst of feral energy or vision.
Then the poem turns intimate and quiet. The wind rests languid in the ivory caves of the beloved’s morning mouth, and dawn wraps their shadow as it turns slowly toward the speaker. The earlier frenzy gives way to something hushed and sensual—an almost dreamlike meeting at daybreak. The salt stone may not be a literal object so much as a trigger for appetite, motion, and finally tenderness.