sex poem

before the solemn bronze saint
but i cannot read you now
here falls no light
i saw god. do you doubt it?
in your flight
which i wish to remark
birds against the april wind
let us pity those who are better off than we are
a flying word from here and there
who is the runner in the skies
not from the whole wide world
my soul is a dark ploughed field
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
out of the window a sea of green trees