Who is this in me that loves you so?

It must be four fiery men . . .

they make up a man who loves you.

His grief and his music

cannot be explained, it is wound inside

an ocean shell, held up to the ears

of old Egyptian ladies soon to be born.

Far to the north, water

hurries through the long Canadian dusks alone,

rising to brush the cedar twigs,

this turbid water where the moose drinks,

his antlers lifted as my body above you

when we make love upon the waters.