A lot of things about it that were weird;
let me sing to you, with you in the air
that holds water, that vibrates when we speak,
and is the stuff of thunderous, gusty weather.
Those little curls of hair—I'm looking up
at Venus on the eastern dawn's horizon,
thinking of the shell she's standing on
in Botticelli. In this poem I wrote
some years ago, associations were
there drawn between the sand, a dream, and the
soft white of porcelain. I need her in
my hands, the small of back I want to feel
beneath my fingertips. Once I have spent
my self in her, I'll fall into a deep sleep.
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