Of course it’s a poem no man could withstand, all that forbidding power
Of the glance and the long sweetness of the slow analysis, 
Sweetness that drew him: 
                                         into the gristle of seeds, 
That sent him away 
                                who had given away the flintlock 
Of his fire
                and stood moon-open in the open spaces,
No god but that sweetness and the paralysis before daybreak
In the eons before love,
                                     even the stone knife a vacancy
To be filled as deeply as her intention was strange to him.