i hear only the music that he hears
the red satin of his mind
the thoughts that drape themselves
upon the willing advancement of our spring
that self chosen fury of barbarous love
stars, flesh, flowers, tongues
compete in the magic without tears
like lazing upon endless beaches
in retribution to those
that refuse, either by inheritance or design
to recognise the precious emrald dewdrop
that lies within the foetus of our understanding
that space others cannot occupy
he has turned my rags to gold