This poem is called, "Gods."
"Sometimes, it occurs to me in the moonlit stillness
of the summer night, that Dionysus will come and take you
from me.
He will wrest your half-willing body away to fields
not far from here.
Disconsolingly close, where you will gaspingly
love the god of passion and wine,
thinking of me fleetly in a minim of sorrow's song.
What else me the lover of someone
as beautiful as you expect?
The gods are besotted with beauty.
In my roughness, I cry.
I bawl.
A two day calf in the bitter Nevadan gale.
I too am mythological.
Dear woman, when you are bruised, and bleeding,
and shaken, and indubitably pregnant with holiness,
will you come back to me even so to calm
my fury that can have no expression for fear
of the fate of heaven blasting me into nothing?
To soothe my horror with your bleeding broken presence?
Maybe together, hand in hand, touching experimentally,
we may find in our ghost-hood some shabby issue
of tissue of humanity.
Still grave and somehow calmly in our humiliation."
[APPLAUSE]