If summer origin’d but one simple sin,
like cold water in the morning shower
does the gross pleasures of sense attend,
for our summer I’d not waste one hour
since for death I will all but kindly stop
and until that rendezvous I intend to loft
my senses high, my mind set lop,
preferring easier leanings on your skin soft.
Perhaps, then, my habenular queen,
we might liken to the birds and to the bees,
your heart and mine can share the sheen
of Eden’s apple, serpentine catholic frieze
of lovers’ lot in garden supreme:
of love and loss, God’s only theme.