I played her Gustav Holst's Venus
She hugged me with her warm body, 27 and softly naked, in our bed
From my chest she told me the music was liquid emotion
Two thousand years later, I affixed goggles and plunged
from the dark C-47 air transport, recalling my chores back in Iowa,
praying to my chute,
into the night above the wounds of Normandy,
and replied it was liquid imagination