The dried ring of yellow piss in the mouth
of the gusset: moonlight on the moving moor
rebounding with the dead reply of silence.
More precious than a common ring, this thing
elating from the act; more worthy than the weeping
common kindness of the common bond.
For echo has met echo in assumption
of their perfect love. In searching for a glove
their hands, dripping at the wrist, entwine.