by Eric Rosenbloom
A milk white cloud of æther drawn
From mother’s breast imbues
With fire and water lymph and blood —
Created life ensues.
The dung that issues forth from mine
Is of her body — true —
Where in the stench is sweet soft cream —
A gift I’d give to you?
The chemist’s salt and patient work
Transforms the smelly mess —
It shines a light and airy gold
To throb inside by breast.
The earth is in our bones — and air
Inflates our lungs — the fire
Of passion beats the surging waves —
And pure is heart’s desire.
Between two circles — in a kiss —
Two bodies warm embrace —
And taste the salts and now create
A love they dare to face.