Let me compose love as a Romance,
lying with you . . .
upon moon white sheets
and window pane shadows.
No more than an eager prisoner here,
desire’s fearful captive,
you strive beyond this mortal reach.
Strive — as glorious Leda long before,
when the great Olympian god came down in animal grace
to taste mere human form,
leaving behind eternal poetry
in her every limb caressed.
Strive! even now
to fool your god.
Put on his power
with each painfully fragile act
I must perform for you.