From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust
clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?
They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.
Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates
flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.
Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along
my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.
