Sunday, February 19, 2012


I do believe her
though I know she lies.

If she whom I love should love me...
Oh she makes me end where I begin
until I have no more.

Yet this is you.

Now I may wither into the truth
and claim the rank to die-
the grave's a find and private place
and cold as any icicle.

Parting is all we know of heaven;
both robbed of air, we lie in one ground
and doubly dying shall go down
to roll it toward some overwhelming question.

Well so I came -
to stay -
to seal the hushed casket of my soul
if her hands should drop white and empty.

How will I hide beneath the music
from a farther room?

The shadow of the night comes on or...
just some human sleep.

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