Now you are being poured upward
And I hold your legs though I don’t
Believe it for a minute this is all so
Sort of Sunday and summer and hot
When the sky reaches and you rise
Into your strangely fluent palace
Where cumulus chambers breathe
Plural moments all being beautifully
Blonde each form having its own
Particular way of moving when you
Invite me to stand atop a world
That we release without regret not
An iota! O my darling barnacled heart
No comments:
Post a Comment