When my hand passes along your breast —Your swooning tremors translated— Done and quiet and motionless Our appetites full and sated. Nothing, no passion beats Nor does heart sing of a bond Mere means to untied ends Cursed, that, to never go beyond. Laying there, as you quake with delight No feelings that burst Try as I might But, jewelry feigned and worn so prettily Though you are not the first. Wander oh, Wanderer Through fields of cut-and-dry And ponder oh, Ponderer What it means, her and I. Feelings professed in autumnal halls’ rain True Heart’s contents gifted Turned bed-pleasures again. Is this then Love? My mattress stained? Is this then Love? To entreat desires again? My tongues are sincere, motivating that art Painted with blood Strained right from my heart. But, perhaps, mine is a bad art So prudish, so straight Where her brushstrokes are cherished Not the brilliance of her paint Perhaps, then, I’m chasing Pure metaphor To find Love and love Is what Lust is for, So, then I lay empty With misty dreams and starry eyes My loving hands not deferred But outright denied. How can we, in what sense, In Love’s definition confide? To prove it’s only a metaphor: Not literally applied.