steam rises under my hand
from a lovely coffee cup
cracked like the wall of an orphanage

The night has made the apple tree a scent,
A motion in my ear, as if delight
Ever so softly trembled in decline.

   O depth sufficient to desire, 
Ghostly abyss wherein perfection hides, 
   Purest effect and cause, you are 

She never knew the brittle rose would wake
    The far-off dormant egypt of its day
That she entombed; spring gave, autumn would take

    Then make a Dragon of the Time and check
Saint George the Heart, and look you ride to ruin
By the ruffled Mere before the Beast can wreck

He came thus to Europe, caught
in the legacy of his grandfathers
the looks of his bony aristocratic woman

And all around the cadaver stood a living halo of fifteen
      quail

Two thousand pounds of Grade A carne vaporize
the heat. He has the biggest pecker in the pool

If I had never seen those glossy magazines, how-to-books, or blue
movies I think I’d still slide into the positions
discovered in the caverns of our river bed.

Antlers butting against the full moon.
Bellies lolling on my belly.