Our canoe idles in the idling current <br />Of the tree and vine and rush enclosed <br />Backwater of a torpid midwestern stream; <br />Revolves slowly, and lodges in the glutted <br />Waterlilies. We are tired of paddling. <br />All afternoon we have climbed the weak current, <br />Up dim meanders, through woods and pastures, <br />Past muddy fords where the strong smell of cattle <br />Lay thick across the water; singing the songs <br />Of perfect, habitual motion; ski songs, <br /> <br />Nightherding songs, songs of the capstan walk, <br />The levee, and the roll of the voyageurs. <br />Tired of motion, of the rhythms of motion, <br />Tired of the sweet play of our interwoven strength, <br />We lie in each other's arms and let the palps <br />Of waterlily leaf and petal hold back <br />All motion in the heat thickened, drowsing air. <br />Sing to me softly, Westron Wynde, Ah the Syghes, <br />Mon coeur se recommend à vous, Phoebi Claro; <br />Sing the wandering erotic melodies <br />Of men and women gone seven hundred years, <br />Softly, your mouth close to my cheek. <br />Let our thighs lie entangled on the cushions, <br />Let your breasts in their thin cover <br />Hang pendant against my naked arms and throat; <br />Let your odorous hair fall across our eyes; <br />Kiss me with those subtle, melodic lips. <br />As I undress you, your pupils are black, wet, <br />Immense, and your skin ivory and humid. <br />Move softly, move hardly at all, part your thighs, <br />Take me slowly while our gnawing lips <br />Fumble against the humming blood in our throats. <br />Move softly, do not move at all, but hold me, <br />Deep, still, deep within you, while time slides away, <br />As the river slides beyond this lily bed, <br />And the thieving moments fuse and disappear <br />In our mortal, timeless flesh.<br /><br />Kenneth Rexroth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/floating-15/
