The Hungry Bed

you were every season and the only reason
that came and went in time's play, and the blind faith
of religion that bent the back of fear:

the word incarnate, you were a holy saint
that showed me the way of real soil: not beneath feet
but buried on high, where hope sowed the clouds

to reap the rain from the earth of the sky: the sun up high
burned its midnight oil as fields of angels wept,
and the world died a little without you - a dark Aphrodite,

whose beauty hid in the heads of dew from swollen buds,
and in eyes that left a memory in a heart's hungry bed:
a summer's parting gift in a winter's disguise.

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