No Need

This sensuousness comes
from deep inside me,
down near the liquid core,
down near the place of passion's
yellow surge of sunlight,
down near the gray moon of sorrow.
The mercury mirror of my soul,
flows in metallic dribbles
from my mind to my loins,
then shimmers out through my limbs--
wetting all the clay.
I'm an open-lipped well
holding moon light;
I'm an empty pot
full of sky.
How can the light of the sun
feel so old upon tired leaves,
yet taste young
when it shimmers the silver waters in me
and makes them tremble?
How can the ancient, sad moon
become that silky light
in a young lover's eyes?
I am convinced that God is a sensualist,
luxuriating in the full feast of His senses--
having no need,
using no one.