After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 127'
The green of fresh leaves complements her fair,
red-blushing cheek. The light leaves glorious names
on surfaces, the golden disc leaves its heirs
on lakes and bays. Yet, in the torpid shame
of a tired marsh I am exhausted of my power
by a seductive woman. Light dazzles her face
and eyes, the dyes of scarves ornament the bower
mysteriously. O love! these snares disgrace
the freedom of nothing! the limitless black
expanse that holds possibility! How she seems
to not exist! How might I live with the lack
of her soft sex? O love! I sing the esteem
the rivers have for oceans! O love! all is woe
without your body! The fresh green leaves seem so—
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