Pretty is thy thatch, pretty thy fur,
Pretty thy golden ears wherein my tongue
Shall fuck, whereon my lips shall nibble, where
My murmur to embrace shall lovelike reach,
And we shall lie like mortars, each in each,
In wavy luxuries of flesh and hair,
Grasping with teeth at last joy's bottom rung,
Until we clasp as wet as once we were
In the first camp of praise.
                              Some oil drips,
Some burns, and finally the engine bursts.
Suffer our thousandths to be like our firsts,
And we will be content with ears and lips,
With tongues and teeth and fingers; but above
Hover these fears of boredom: thoughts of love. (ca. 1968)