His goblets were breasts

Yesterday I read Robert Bly saying
Bill Stafford wrote a new poem everyday.
When someone asked Bill, what if

his poem turned out be bad someday!
He will lower his standards, answered he,
no poem could be a bad poem that way.

So here is my poem for today
And I new poem will come from me everyday,
I've no high standards to hold on to anyway.

Life gets too hectic sometime,
and the day passes like the blinking of an eye.
I was caught in a day like this today till

early in the evening a friend called,
too bored with her drunk husband,
in a pig's-arse house she was.

I made her some cinnamon tea,
she sighed and sipped it slowly
telling how boring her life was lately.

I read Pablo Neruda to her.
It seemed to go over her head. I explained
he loved white hills and thighs in women

his peasant body dug into her woman
from whence for him leapt a son
from the roots of the dark earth.

His goblets were breasts.
His roses were pubis.
His rivers with black beds.

He persisted in her grace.
His thirsts and desires boundless,
never deploring love's weariness.