If you will not come
          for me
then you must come
          for you.
If you'd not be lifted up
then let me lay you down.
If you'd roll your whole desire
swelling through your fingers,
if you'd tongue your hunger deep
to warm some belly's budding—
put roses
          wherever you want them,
put roses, put petals, put thorns,
let thighs, let your belly, let breasts,
          let your mouth,
let your voice,
          let your voice,

Rain-lace veils all the tall gray hills,
crows come rowing, oaks are hung
with skeins of drunkard robins.
Pigeons whirl and dive and whirl
among the windy colonnades of fir,
and every bush of winter berries, bright
and dark, fills with flirts and chuckles.

And I got laid this morning—no, no,
we got laid this morning, yes, before
the covers got thrown back, before
the breakfast sillies with the kids,
before the creaking boots and slickers,
before the jiggling rain-drips on the tips
of both our noses. Every winter berry.