Sweet one, hanging in the moon’s eye!
I won’t concoct a story about bulls and cows,
I won’t retreat to metaphor and allegory.
No, lovely teat swaying in the field, scowls
Are for lovers, ghastly sorrows of Old Europe
In my downcast, downtrodden stare,
My only dream, to lasso your hope
For the fuller life I offer, if you dare:
Eternity spent in the spirals of icy space
Rich in formal glitter, palaces of atoms
The turning treads of a viral staircase
While my proboscis, fixed in your ass, hums.