The Thing Aroused

Our bodies leap like Labradors,
thirsty for what’s brimming from the well –
hungry with a dumb excitement –

with the thing aroused all forward
and affectionate and bumbling – bungling
blind for more – just simply more –

infant and unspeakably mature – ripeness
of a tunnel-vision mission deep
as fission of the atoms of the heart

and groin, conjoining with the rest of
Everything, all wet and warm and indescribably
delicious – and not one embracing

moment out of joint with what has now
become the only point of anything: to reach,
and reach, and reach, and find –

with a correlative discovery which puts
to rest whatever misbegotten notion we may
once have entertained that body isn’t mind.


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