If words were garments and garbs, what would
poems then be, especially poems of love?
– May I borrow the bar behind your back?
– From behind the keister, behind the stern?
– Where the pilot must stand to steer the ship
and where too the part most withdrawn sleeps,
that other side, the most forbidding one,
with which the Moon invariably turns
to the Sun to let him see the secret rump
and which she keeps aligned—but occult
from anyone else during the eclipse tap.
– Is there a line that could be joined
and rung into one—like eyes in eyes
which morph the days into shortest nights?
– With Venus, else unseen, to shine beneath.
– From that deeper end, once barred by light.
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