How I wish I'd stopped with bruising

after Ovid, Amores I:VII

How I wish I'd stopped with bruising
her lips with lips, her curved neck
with loving teeth. But rage came up
like spring melt in the mountains --
how I shouted, how I dragged her by the hair
and ripped her dress from nape
to girdle. Oh, Corrina, white
as Paros marble! How you trembled, then,
like a poplar leaf,
or a valley lake in small warm breezes.