Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.

I afraid of being, on this shore
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my gross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master.

Never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.