the wind of this love
is clambering the spine
    of want -

the gentleness of it
  sings to me, an oncoming ratio
  of love's reign:

   all of it is to less of me.
   love on its knees,
   weeping to be discovered
   and hurled into the readiness
   of bodies, the intractability
   of hearts ravaged with   instinctive roars of need,
   the flight of words
   soaring with flame,
   forests shaken loose,
   wringing them out of birds!

  what question to bare it
  when i am already tenderly
  hurt with love's assault?

   and then memories scavenge
   through the ruin of all:

  who is behind these
     wounds?