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.