Published: April 3, 2008

When I meet the two spikes of your hips,

the strange channel of your throat,

I will write great poems

about your dark, animal sleep,

your body like the mythological gods

of oil paintings:

the rosy-tipped fingers and toes,

and the sinews of the holy thigh;

about how upon waking

you touch my hair, flowing out like wine,

and red in the sunlight.