and her eyes pierce their intense love into me

i drew closer into her

until i felt the rhythm of her body,

like a living cloak over me.

i saw cold, green trees

their delicate silken branches folded

and the deep sky over them

with immeasurable sadness.

her love for me is fierce, continual;

strong, fresh and overpowering.

my love for her is like the movement of a cloud,

serene and unbroken. or the motion of a flower

stirring its pole stem in deep delight.

or the graceful sound of laughter

in the victory of her gladness.

she becomes like a pretty animal,

suave in her movement:

stepping down, stalking her prey…

aside: the fall of eve

her stealth is like the whisper of the wind.

unimagined, unannounced.

like the twisted snake of eden,

lies to adam, a tool for beezelbub.

eve bares the lie. she lies with child.

kane child kills his abel brother

yet kane will not live to abely teach

the truth of eve's deception.

let me believe in the clean faith of the body

the sweet glowing vigour and visions of unageing love.

she shall make for me

a sensitive confusion of the blood.

a rhythm i choose not to break,

stroking the air and holding light,

and the roots of the trees through the air

touching the silver clouds.

trails its fingers in kind praise.

i have made for her an image of her,

within the power of my mind and

the cruelty of my subtle heart

so she appears entertaining,

like the arms of a woman,

or the branches of a rotting tree.

and as they go

so fast they follow

her soul is dead

this is her story...

there is a willow grows ascant into a brook

that grows with hoare leaves in the grassy stream.

there with fantastic garlands did she come

with crowflowers, nettles, daises, and long purples,

that liberal shepherds do give a grosser name

but our coldmaids do dead mans fingers call them.

and there her coronet, clambering to hang,

and envious silver broke. when down her weedy trophies

and herself did lunge into the weedy brook.

her clothes spread wide, and mermaids, awhile

they bore her up, which time she chanted snatches of old tunes

as one incapable of her own distress.

or a creature, lame and invalid

until unto that element

but long it could not be

until her garnments, heavy with drink,

pulled the poor wretch

from her melodious lay to happy death.

death comes to the beautiful

she is like a friend with fresh breath,

and small feminine shoulders,

and white symmetrical lips

drawing her energy from the love

and the glitter of his teeth...

you shall comfort me

with your symmetrical devotion.

and the web if your straight senses.

your bitterness is masked with smiles

and your sharp pity, unchangeable.

i can detect a tolerance. a compassion that flows

from a deep body, which goes with me easily

like the sheep-heart of a girl.

so the cypress and the ilex

mix their blood with yours.

and thrill and breathe and move

unhealthily in kind veins.

there is born a new bitterness,

which binds me with pain.

a clean surge of love

moves in the fold of her arms.

the contact with her breasts.

there will be for me anew life...

grows like a root.

powerful inside me.

gestures of love.

involve a gaiety.

recall old desire.

like the hope of a sweet sensitive plant,

in barbed earth.

holds voluptuous clarity, under wings...

so the hills
coil their bodies like snakes
and trees
go away to a blind space

let me believe
in the clean faith of the body
the eternity of the spirit
the gestures of unageing love.