In the simple interest 
of honest coherency, 
the fact of my love 
tangles as hair 
drawn and drowned 
in tar--
          And your eyes
the wash of turpentine, of gasoline--
          And your thought
the sawing shears, the scalpel's wake--
          And your fingers
crimson angels amid wet-black trees--
          And your own love
an indigo flame, a heavy steam.