Churns expectant thrummings
Of wilderness, thought gone,
But extant in every singing
Nerve-ending rubbing against
The smooth black satin
Panties of existence.

And at that heated touch
Noise ariseth like a grave
Shyly grasping up at the hand
Slyly grasping down into
Their realm of darkness
And power.

And as the people all around splutter
With winter’s last biohazards
Nature rises up again
With the scent of flowers,
In our nostrils,
Having sex.