this poem for you,
my not-round word,
the colour of beginning and end;
unselfed verb of my breast,
my constant occupation,
wind-rose of passion,
dahlia of my scars
rest on me,
close all your senses,
leave your lips half-open:
for there is only your fire against so many cold things,
only your tenderness against arrows and stones,
only your glance to uncloud the sun
























I bet it's beating more rapidly knowing the high esteem you place on it in your life!































137 old applause
