Though idle air filtered
boundless lands
in slimy thongs mumbling
brandished the outcrop.

"Below, where we all fall
if we're not careful, listen:
Not to mount these rough, scaled
organs, offspringing serpents,
but take me.

Dearie!
The old-time love-joints,
remember, ravishing?

Unravel this vacuum. These
huge silent estates. Quick, now
that we're running out of cups:
Tarry flesh and foul blot
these years. I'm asking the favor

of enjoyment,
trapped and bloodless, though
violently."
So the wounds stopped, convinced.
Cease-fire.

The up-hill way home, steep
and indecisive, edged in night,
pitched and failed. To eager an instant,
she slipped and drained off.


Yields to air, a second time,
her transparencies and openings marvelous,
she left.
He cultivated
This rock garden.