All I wanted to say is this:
when I open myself like a wave,
or close my hands,
like a tentacular stem of a tree,
I am sensual of this love,
I am reminiscent as a candlelight:
my love bear with me,
for the real objects are not hidden,
in the soft caricature of the rising sun,
or by a descended hearing,
fluttering vision, starving touch,
but be it simply a recurring impulse or need,
clearing the pathways of my affection,
precious and remote, damp and cerebral.