Rising like the wind in cresting a hill
Surfacing on my skin an urgent flood
Yet my limbs slowed as if filled by mud
Where no impatient plow can break ground, till,
Nor comprehend the ardent siren muse
From which no logic bids appetite recuse
But like spring insists its penetrating.
Every corpuscle driven and concentrating,
Bound by inward need and want we succumb
By giving our restraint to surrender
We make common discourse a pretender
Shamelessly bait and baited we become
To shudder awed in spawning’s great wonder
And once more our innocence rip asunder.