There; poised above, a lemon-rind of moon
Recalls a youth of twitterings, desires
For nacreous, warm flesh. Oh God! that life
Should filter so through factory machines.
The ancient recrudescence; slowly-healed
Wounds all unripped in agony again.
Some lips are taut in bloodless nudity:
Are they enhungered for the limbs of dead?
No; they have savoured lust till they were lax
Of mind and body, with no palate for it