O, my America, my Newfoundland
John Donne, 'Elegy 20'
O, my America, discovered by slim chance,
behind, as it seemed, a washing line
I shoved aside without thinking -
does desire have thoughts or define
its object, consuming all in a glance?
You, with your several flesh sinking
upon itself in attitudes of hurt,
while the dogs at my heels
growl at the strange red shirt
under a horned moon, you, drinking
night water - tell me what the eye steals
or borrows. What can't we let go
without protest? My own body turns
against me as I sense ...