Shamrock

Is there anything prettier than that -
to stare into your manifold spaces
toward the hook & vine
of cathedral leaps,
the vaults & crypts
as go-betweens of an earthy worship,
the supine female form?
By quiet pools,
thrush in the thicket
with red berry behind its eye,
miniature sun
proceeding by the branch
to undress the bark
with leaves as
passionate culprits
kissing dark.
Clasped hands
upward lies the sky
my masterpiece angel,
I bite lush meadows,
tread spongy brooks,
endear daring small of back,
crevice taste nape and neck,
a beatific pilgrim nearing
a fleshy way-station,
first charting his compass,
fathoming a probe
to collect armfuls of starlight &
shade, hair, eye, lip like fragrant sea-grape
- pine & cedar bough in love-lorn resin smile.