LOVE SONG OF A SLUG

                   Out of deep loam we rise

                   to meet -

                   not a second,

                   you might say,

                   too soon -

                   upon a warm bituminous bed.

                   Our juices,

                   love's sweet nectar,

                   mix.

                   Our bodies,

                   sleek,

                   black as the earth we come from,

                   entwine

                   as we suckle our honey.

                   He/she coils,

                   voluptuous,

                   glistening,

                    tumescent

                   round my vogliscent coils

                   and I sing my slug song, 

                   my silent slug chant

                   to him/her

                   and to all the generating of generations,

                   all that comes out of viscous fluid

                   into the light

                   and dies.

                   Our flesh feels the sound of a great Thing hurtling:

                   our bituminous bed rocks

                   as we climax,

                   he/she and I.

                   Brief scream of pain.

                   A Thing of superslug weight is on us:

                   every nerve explodes

                   and our union is complete

                   in one black stain.