Love Stinks

Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae
lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis
oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi
et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum;
aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
furtivos hominum vident amores:
tam te basia multa basiare
vesano satis et super Catullo est,
quae nec pernumerare curiosi
possint nec mala fascinare lingua.

(translated)

You ask, my Lesbia, how many of your kisses
are enough and more than enough for me.
As big a number as the Libyan grains of sand
that lie at silphium producing Cyrene
between the oracle of Sultry Jupiter
and the sacred tomb of old Battus;
Or as many stars that see the secret love affairs of men,
when the night is silent.
So many kisses are enough
and more than enough for mad Catullus to kiss you,
these kisses which neither the inquisitive are able to count
nor an evil tongue bewitch.

- Catullus, Carmen 7

We have taken the night
like a Persian black cat
into bed with us;
your fingers stoking my body’s heat
are the glittering red
glassware of my childhood,
are scents suddenly
remembered and pungent;
dark rivers under your hair
as under remote bridges.
I feel with my hands
The cool rain bark of your limbs.

Afterwards lying on our backs
like pillowed sovereigns
we decree space
and allow thought and the room’s objects
to separate us;
abstract and personal
we turn
in the round cavity of sleep

- Irving Layton, Nightfall