You're Lying There Still Asleep

You're lying there still asleep, the sheets
Below your knees, your skin poured smooth as coffee cream,
Your curvatures of which hills themselves would dream.
Our sheets and pillows are like geese
Leaning against each other, and you're the Golden Fleece
Now suddenly, as Jason's look alights on your form.
Your beauty is the quiet storm
That my temple would like to assail.
I see your intense whirlpool drawing my spirit in...
I don't care if there's something of the Siren in you;
We all get destroyed in the end, let it be with you.
You twitch slightly, the Golden Fleece may be waking you up;
You rub your lips, you smile, you see my temple's up;
You stroke it as though a cliff-triangle of cranes
Were anticipating paradise in the sky,
And I'm like a long-forgotten well that needs
A beautiful woman to drink, who boils, who bleeds.
What we do, my love, on this bed is not
Some desperation, as though the worms outside
In our garden were playing violins to our tumultuous tide,
Mocking us with a death that's sure to come.
What we have and do can but mock the sum
Of inhibitions, repressions, anxieties.
We will smash to atoms the presumptuous sun.
We will look into our depths and be one.