Well, as if it were that,
I pause for its coming,
I stand at its parting,
For its sight the better,
Avert neck, dart eyes.
I wish it were her, but it's not them, at least.
It's definiteless though deictic, and as
It hamstrings ken, spits, too, at the Infinite.
A substitute nymph
Plywood splints what was better.
Earns thanks without asking, taking or deserving.
O would it were beauty!
Would then it were love.
But that walker wears poetry's name.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment