sex poem

the agony of having too much power
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
before the solemn bronze saint
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
why are the things that have no death
the sun is up
in all things not spoken of
let us pity those who are better off than we are
be not angry with me
full of tears
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
i never knew the earth had so much gold
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me