He rose when touched, a denser appetite.
He saw all things are made of skin and stone
and dreamed a creature tinged with beast.
I’d grown alone in darling inwardness,
my stillness rooted in the golden mean—
but the solemn may grow ravenous.
Song and moon and throat became our need.
Mere kissing was the substance of our thought.
We shook dry blossoms, loosening their seed.