Let me court you and bend my pride,
Venting foolish passions,
Vowing with my heart,
     Volleying pebbles to your window.

Do not forsake for my sake,
     Say, you are the fickle Moon
And I'm a grumpy Narra tree,
That I'm the dizzied Sun and you—
A pirouetting world, that we are
     Two islands of the Archipelago.

But never say, impulsively say,
That you are the shooting star,
     The Perseids, a meteor shower,
For it is then, love,
That I would have become
The melancholy,
     The Universe.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

The doctor closed the fist-shaped hole
Of your absence,
With little black knots,
"Come back in six months;
We'll check up on you"
I'm sitting on the table,
But there is no doctor.
There is me and there is you.
You're whispering
Sweet nothings into my ear,
And tearing my stitches out,
One by one.
I can see the hole again-
"Code Blue"
Only it's not blue,
Your eyes are green.
And I when I wake up later,
You're back.
I try to talk, but you interrupt-
you tell me I'm pretty.
"Begin compressions"
Blood is everywhere.
Months pass.
You are lying in bed next to me;
You kiss me on the mouth.
"Charge to 300"
You are gone.
Please don't come back.