I turn about a shadow of my self
Pretending that the vibrant light I see
Is but the limit of a woman that
Is swaying on the top of a piano.
I put my nose into an older book
And sniff about the differing translations,
Stumbling over quotes of Cicero
That let me know I know nothing of virtue.
I read her skin; pronounce another poem
Into the pores and pour my breath about
Her form in a pathetic description.
Representing what? My self alone
Is but evaporated from an ocean
Extending beyond time to every shore.
No comments:
Post a Comment