I'm haunted by bullet-shaped hearts,
With sparks-tinted pearls n’ quartz,
Of styles slanted by bonbon tarts.
I was the sash-links of velveted stuffy arts,
Meaning my love has even counterparts,
Of yours and I and yours and I.
Why, You remind me of liberty
And my likings of poetry.
And when the lead—O! When the lead fired
A slow, in my easy trench coat cold n’ tired
Mistletoes of Narra leaves…n’ oh my heart.
I have been humbled deep. In a heap of a palm
Holding the universe in a gaze calm
N’ repose; of your works in beautiful prose.
And from my eyes, I'm bleeding,
Not unto blindness, but unto seeing.
You,
The blood,
and nothing.