Eight deer on the slope 
in the summer morning mist.
The night sky blue.
Me like a mare let out to pasture.
The Tao does not console me.
I was given the Way 
in the milk of childhood.
Breathing its waking and sleeping.
But now there is no amazing smell 
of sperm on my thighs, 
no spreading it on my stomach 
to show pleasure.
I will never give up longing.
I will let my hair stay long.
The rain proclaims these trees, 
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be 
between us. Let joy.
Let entering. Let rage and calm join.
Let quail come.
Let winter impress you. Let spring.
Allow the lost ocean to wake in you.
Let the mare in the field 
in the summer morning mist
 make you whinny. Make you come 
to the fence and whinny. Let birds.