Lyric 4

I am thinking of that girl
whose eyes had the depth of the evening;
her hair was the black waves of night
in the earthen green clouds;
her voice mixing life with art
and giving it inflection;
her look - beneath everything- seeking a relation.

I am thinking of that woman
whose body was moon-lit flesh;
and her breasts, two ambitious primitives;
and her thighs were night-moist valleys
where dawn's dews were upon- in those moments
the perfect union
in warmth, life, passion,
ebullition and wilderness
and the short nap of the gay moment.

I am thinking of that white haired old woman
who said, "There is no substitute for experience."

A poet is one who thinks of the past.