Poem 89: The Deer the Tiger

all the partings that were you and I
in the deep dying down of the poets lift
have nothing to give now to the freedom fall
and the floating fall on fairy wings
from sea bred parks and too distant stars
and non-magic rings, its a natural fall
to the day and night of breast and lofty thigh
(aftermath of afternoons)
between the lie of lying open and lying still
for the poets fall
from his reign of eyes above the park
and floating down before his time
he sees her belly in a later time
as lower down to the lover down of fleece
for the golden men in golden boats
to come-a-sailing, come-a-sailing
to chart a death upon her red
and woollen breast and belly of blue
where once this golden man hung
so high above (but nobly so)
and watching like the infant hawk
he seemed on fire, seemed on fire
as now at last he dives him down
to find her belly’s hair
and further down to the secret down
to lips and line all covered in
warm and sealed and moist as blood
finger opened and free as sin
to let him in, to let him in
and lie they will as soft as doves
and gentle love, gentle love
as the deer the tiger unto death.