Heavy Final Plenitude

A jungle tumbles, teems beyond, outside
and almost up into my windows here –
Manhattan spills abundantly into herself –
despoiling indiscriminately every leafy spear
and branch and tuft of greenage bursting
through her body’s concrete cracks –
exulting in the glory of her florid orifices –

pulling all towards her messy flesh, draping
herself in it: plumy boas on the burlesque
queen of Tarzan’s secret dreams – intensely
felt but never seen; cross her (as of course
you do), and she’s a blinking harridan,
a shrew, a courtesan who will remain
too pricey for the likes of you; her endlessly

alluring thighs will open only to whatever
promises to pour down from the skies:
she is the mistress of her own sweet dark
fecundity; her seasons shock; she blocks all
barrenness to which she nonetheless conveys
a sideways wink: for right there, right beyond
the brink, the chasm fathomlessly sinks –

it is the bed from which this goddess woke
too long ago for you to know – to which,
eventually, in some season yet to be –
or maybe this one, maybe in the heavy final
plenitude of this one – you will go – and stay –
and not return to say a word: as if whatever
you had been in her had not occurred.

.