The title of this one runs into the poem too.
"Here"-- 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 hips 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 images 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.