Scented herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves -- O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again -- Out from where you retired, you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many, passing by, will discover you, or inhale your faint odor -- but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell, in your own way, of the heart that is under you,
O burning and throbbing -- surely all will one day be accomplished;
O I do not know what mean, there underneath yourselves -- you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear -- you burn and sting me...
(Whitman)
Your match between image and poetry is profound and poetry in itself; those blurred furs/pines echo intuition. This frankly seems very atmospherically surreal to me. Thank you.
About an earlier still of this scene:
I do think this is fairly classic. There's something timeless and noteable about the elegance of Ennis' body over Jack
-- that even from a distance, one can see that rare uninhibited glow of his elongated posture, hungry, caught sweetly between the craving and the appreciation of Jack, and this animal coming out of himself, wild.
