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Who for those ages ever without some blood
Plumped for a rose and plucked it though its fence?..
Till the canny florist, amorist of cents,
Unpawned the peppery apple, making it good
With boredom, back to its branch, as it seems he could,—
Vending the thornless rose. We think our rents
Paid, and we nod. O but ghosts crown, dense,
Down in the dark shop bare stems with their Should

Not! Should Not sleepwalks where no clocks agree!
So I was not surprised, though I trembled, when
This morning groping your hand moaning your name
I heard distinctly drip... somewhere... and see
Coiled in our joys flicker a tongue again,
The fall of your hair a cascade of white flame.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 6:12 AM | Viewed: 1750 times

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