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— on  Beltane (May 1st)

 

Summer heat in the forest. Green rage, haze.

Too hot. Too sluggish. The wind-bells don’t stir.

 

The birds don’t stir. Too sultry for dull praise

and dull ritual — Only the lover

 

and the witch stir; all who pray erect, wet

to touch, open to air — Only lovers

 

whose skin sheens, whose kisses come slick with sweat,

who cum as gushings, downpours, flood waters.

 

A touch of sodomy between the trees.

A touch of vulgarity; satyrs blush

 

when they see us together. Praise this sleaze

and all that it has wrought. Praise rush and gush,

 

the tongue in your mouth, the flesh of your rump

in this haze; all that is muscled, round, plump.