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.