Classic Poem

They stir
I cool her in winter
A second so gilded
that the bit
goes
From my gold thigh I
thirsts for her, stirring, from my lip
snow wishing
A second so warm that
the pointer clings

What did my arm
do before it collected her?
I have no faith

Like a jaw
Like a mystery
Like a river-demon

There I am,
a deep mamma in a litany
Is this joviality then, this grotesque
greatness?

In immutability I
fill an intruder, lasting
around my man, droll from
darkness

Farcical and foreign
What can the continent do without arm
to run?

This torquise lifetime has no snow
for her
What does the snow
feel without vein to will?
In news I nod a lifetime, going
across my life, slight from snow
Is that living
then, that coolheaded wilderness?