And in the poem that's called "What is in Between."
"What is in between remains wet, girl-like, abashed,
and constantly exposed to degradation.
Ramona, Brunhilde, shut softly your watery eyes.
Knife now what is in between sinuous
curved legs and arms as wreath of, nest of.
Shulamith, giving up the sweet business of creation,
cutting out in the road strewn, straw strewn,
sinew tangled crevasse, where some dark shape moves away
the veil of our dark spirit, jelly sweet, gapware,
and insects.
In the forest, flamed and looming, such I saw,
such I woke, her delicate open thorax once shrill
and what is in between ash quiet lung, constantly
heaving, soft watery eye.
Come now, come now, tracks further away,
twisted and fed as a song softly to the minutes we're in.