Eros, O Eros, hail
thy palate, god who knows
good pasta,
good bread,
good Brie.

The flesh
is delicate, we must nourish it:
desire hungers
for wine, for clear plain water,
good strong coffee,
as well as for hard cock and
throbbing clitoris and the
glide and thrust of
sentence and paragraph in and up to the
last sweet sigh of a
chapter's ending. The beauty
of freckled squid, flowers of the sea
fresh off the boat, graces
thy altar, Eros, which is in
our eyes. And our lips
the blood of berries
before we kiss, before we
stumble to bed. Our bed
must be, in thy service, earth --
as the strawberry bed
is earth, a ground
for miracles.