If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.