on Venus, time passes slowly because
we are all preoccupied with love.
The trees build up like sponges,
the crust under us accumulates like coral,
we begin to feel the long pressure
the jewel feels, if the jewel feels,
and, although this is suspicious belief,
we welcome the illusion with that thrill
formerly reserved for the profane.
His hands are under her buttocks;
her legs are bent on his shoulders;
their extensions are the piping for
“the best that has been thought or said.”
The image is of a brain for all space.
The universe, remember, is a ribbon
where we follow back to the beginning
and so meet that one of whom you were thinking
when you mistook being here for being there.
By Marvin Bell.