oh, what darling things live
   in me continually announce her being:

   the indent of my hands
   the grit of my teeth
   the ache of my bones when i move
      far away from you
   the intimate commune of my mouth
   to the supple fruit of the world
    and my mind wandering
   what to make of nakedness when
    you have displaced my weight
into something air's deft hands dare carry!

  we are only afloat in each other's
   fervid atmosphere.
  there are spaces i yield when you ******
    forward, killing the fires that live
      in me,
    the silences that confess the
   mild affliction of the bed now void
      and impression-laden,
   how swiftly i was taken away and how
      plodding my return has been,
   not so much now myself denying
      the imprint of such sharp moment
    weaving your truancy

  that whenever we make love,
    there is something in me that dies
     repeatedly, even now, alone
   underneath a latticework of dark,
   for love clung rather ponderously
         stifling all words quivering
          and panging and there is now
   you, rolling together with the continuity
     of these words, thralling me to
      one more embrace.

have we not stood
under the grasp
of one trade wind?

i look at you, and you return
a broken image–
my eyes have lost their irises.

i speak to you, and you give back
a mouthful enigma–
my mouth has lost its language.

i gaze at the sky, and it relents
an anguished star: it is you,
in the belly of the dark releasing
the moon and its lunar tail–
my days are fragmented
and all there is,

the night and the fall:
we are,
we were;
away.

While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
For nothing this wide universe I call,
My love is as a fever, longing still
'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.'
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.
He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to ****.
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
But her foresight could not forestall their will.
The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;