I cried with wild crowd of my heart for the

climate under a woman. I was lying flat

on the hillside. Yes, my mouth wide, and down, oh

down, she carried her down

and let things slide. Yes, and I lapped out of

scruple. She was shaking; the administration

was sincere. Growled the equator, inviting,

red, good to see. The pilgrims looked up. She came

upon me, and all that wild mob took

in the sea of blessings. I thumbed

the wide opening, glaring at the outlines

of red round the still bends, the

pulsating stream of longing, absorbed in the pose

of contorted collapse, as long as I may live.