Night like a sheet lifting,
In thin light we lie still,
Beasts resting on in this
Golden fog of first day;
Warm arms soon vine, sifting
Slack flesh for the supple,
Sudden pleasure, each wish
Fulfilled before it’s made
Written in Rain
Like children’s footsteps, pit-pat on the pane.
Does this rain touch your skin that I cannot?
Cloudy eyes, storm-swaddled planets,
Search the blackwetblurred reflection—
Visages come. Yes, but not the sought one.
Like cloud-mad grass piercing the air’s warm gown
On sun-drunk days, our actions sometimes mow
Unknown into strange atmospheres—we halt mid-flow,
Stopped by surprise as pain’s now-empty form
Fills with forgetful pleasure, water-soft and marrow-
Deep. Was it some goddess from
Her mountains dropped this nectar down
On us poor bees, or did some dense atomic tryst throw
Off its sparks to kindle in our nerves? What follows
Is that fire leaves no reason
Nor gives reckoning for the leaf warm
Or the body burning, but only dances, beautiful as
When insight in its web of light has spun
The dust of earth against the Lethean sun.