Through all the cricket sounds

I loafe in summer grass rooms-- shelves intoxicate me

it is my mouth in love with wood here and naked, nipples whisper silk

silk are loosed to kisses: a reaching of trees-- hills, of me rising

the earth of all poems, millions

of eyes shall look at the beginning

and end of this act--

in the jars on the shelves are bulbs and frog hearts

beating,  my tongue is a worm and thristy
for the dark room where it senses
its way