This is called "Eye of Heart."
"Because I was whipped as a child
frequently by a mother so bewildered
by her passion, her generous hunger,
she would freak at the swell of her, even her love for me,
alone in the small house of our room by the metropolis,
and fling me the frantic flap of her hand as if some power in me
to say I want brought the unbearable also to her lips.
And as it didn't hurt nearly as much
as her distress imagined it and set the set,
I grew up longing for consummation
as she did, beyond endurance, tenderness, acceptance
of the large insatiable that grows
so small and grateful if allowed its portion of sun,
so that the images that led me down,
the spiral of forgetting self and listing, like a phenomenon
in the grip of its weather, dazzling or threatening
but free of civilization were the links whereby
her terror made good its promise to annihilate my will,
her will.
I couldn't tell the difference then, as now.
When making love, I can breathe in forever
on that rise, indefinite plateau whose briefness like an eye
is unself-conscious, and the rim of the horizon its known line."