was as round
as a milkmaid's memory,
delicious with sights and sounds,
a man like a cow who got milked by a maid
as her hands on his udders pulled down.
Where is the life of the newborn going,
in the cause,
does he carry out flesh into nonflesh, sea washed, uplifted fall?
To be clear, recapitulate, down in warm covers I sank into sheets,
but no fabric slid into this pumping,
vortices, tubes pulled me down.
She pulled me down
from the plant
I felt like milk,
a drop of water
on the end of a leaf in spring.
Imagine a lot of tubing in a lab.
These tubes reach up and pull you down.
Inside the tubing I am microscopic,
for I hunger and thirst to go round.
Do you want to pour yourself
A fleshy beaker? Who can resist
the pleasure it brings?
Come down to dark flesh
with all light and air, run rivers,
lift branches with sappy things.