When your hair is undone
And it spreads beyond your shoulders
And it catches the sun
You are a goddess.
Cliché? No, eternal truth.
Even here on coffee’s mezzanine
Where as big lips sip from
Your tall cup of whatever it is
You are really
Slipping me the liquids of Lethe
And into dreaming I tumble your giving amplitude.
I have stoned your patrician sculpting on Fifth Avenue
Marbles hard and incomparably downy
But what would they feel like
Wrapped around my swollen labors
Nauseas with meter and meaning
Accidental in jeans on Sunday
The day of our late lord now
The plus plus Devi cream
Whole-milker of Montague Street
Whose satin thong I know by faith
Strains to soar like any other bird of joy?
My mouth is the sky
And if I tasted your womb
I know you would bless me with eternity.