So here's a poem called "Rapture."
"Rapture."
"I can feel that she has got out of bed.
That means it is 7:00 AM.
I have been lying here with eyes closed,
thinking how she might look if, at breakfast, we suddenly
started talking about that hidden place in her, that
is like a soprano's tremolo, which can't be named
or the resemblance might vanish.
And right then, at the breakfast table, she came.
I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.
I imagine her hair would fall around her face,
and she would become apparently downcast,
as she does at a concert when she is moved.
I open my eyes, and there she is,
next to the bed without clothes on, bending to a low drawer
picking over various small, smooth, white, and pink items
of underwear.
She bends so close her torso is parallel to the Earth,
and yet her back has no sway in it.
There is little burden, the day has hardly begun.
But her breasts fall full, yearn down.
Their nipples are deep pink, where light shining up
from the gates under the Earth behind which
those who could not love, press, wanting to be born again
and to start over, touches them.
The two lumps of fast-walking, leaping, lovemaking muscles
look toward the sky.
They have no counterpart on Earth.
I reach out and touch her arm, and she falls back into bed,
and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas.
Later, I open my eyes, and there she
is again, bending at the same drawer,
examining the underwear.
The clock shows 8:00 AM.
With huge, smooth effort of mounded turning muscles,
the Earth has been turning again.
She takes a glittering piece of cloth from the drawer
and stands up.
Under the falls of hair, her face
has become quiet and downcast, as if she will be,
all day among the strangers, looking down
inside herself at our rapture."
[APPLAUSE]