I am never far, in rueful memory,
From that sweet, disordered bed
Of sonnets composed of meter,
But no rhyme, from which this song is led.
The limbstrewn page on which we penned
Those scribbled lines, so clumsily sewn,
The loosed unpinnings of our hearts,
And with our dreams about us thrown.
Full stretch verse, through breathless skies,
Two souls astride a single thought;
Flung towards the vanishing point
Like leaves in the maelstrom caught;
Until at once, and rising in a breath,
The quick, sharp, sweetness of that little death.
