When the fragile music dies
you put away your voice,
and with the passion
          of Campion’s songs
still running in our veins
there is another duet,
and so intense its harmony
that only the need for food
brings it to a ritardando.
 
In the dark kitchen
I cut the crusts from brown bread,
making sandwiches, cream-cheesed,
the sliced cucumus sativus
flecked with mint and cress,
and placed on blue plates,
surrounded by olives, grapes
- an apricot apiece.
 
Then for the coda:
(in the bluest of blue bowls)
musk strawberries lounging
on a bed of rubus idaeus.
 
We troop upstairs
with our matching plates,
and I lay the Welsh-woolled rug
on the studio floor.
We place beside them
heavy glasses of mint and honeyed tea,
and eat immediately, hungrily.
 
Later, still aflame
from such music and its crystalled verse,
we lie amidst the studio tea
making sure we are not fiction, but wholly real.
You say, ‘Perhaps raspberry is the new fig’.
and place this fruit between my lips.

an akin, crimsonshaded, thine Männlein whom walks, in flower fields of sunnysided, uppeth of meadows, reddish glay over the fabric of barefoot felt grass.
an akin Männlein, sherry of hope, lost in a positive o,
of tender disorientation,
a diving swim, into the ocean of flora.
as then cometh the blue rain, nutrition of soil.
  thee Earth-Mother whom weeps the Magnifique rays of joyful tears,
   cleansing our rooted hair of darkest, green leaves.
our happiness at ease, at rest, the Männlein guideth the path in plural lonliness.
aesthety' of sorrow, saddened laugh, glossing over us, as I,
  as me, myself and we, as a post raincloud rainbow.
  . . . beauty be christa, crystalled thy castle, her and herself. in our notioned, discovered a chrestomathy, in fairy dust the Männlein bathes,
   for the blind dea as a hearts passage.
  the dea, be love, being compassion,  companionated, traveled passenger alongside, the christa of vision, no matter the darkness eternal.
  Männleins, a plural loneliness, being happy, and to a'no less,
  nevertheless, and to a'no matter, shall be a metamorphism, into bonded singularity of two. never to become the dark, on a hill topped meadow field.
   eternity being Doe, the deer, a doubled horn in a forest, of no seareeds, no labyrinth of trees, a clear flower grass rag over a pure, moist soil, a livelyhood mud that is no longer faced darkened black.
   the Männlein walketh as two, together as ever, the red ray of fire, the meadow ray of soil, turned to our sun, the blind dea of the Earth-Mother,
   christa be Doe, a deer, we have seen the creation in words, phonetic.
    as we follow time, follow a nature, an adornment, shall we be as the Männlein?
    a mankind? an akin kind of human? our blind dea as compassion, an'n twey we have met, we shall, we may... we can be, must be the apostle of the deer, our spirit a Doe.
    The Männlein wanderer in a spring, atop the mountained hill, he be a hillflower itself, red as with Agape, deepeth his labyrinth'd heartcorner . . .
    so'th we have helped them found, an akin man'nkin, the allcreation, of dearest christa. so'th we have walked, where they have walked, in a sunnysided uppeth, yellowjacket meadows the field, barefooted on in grassy, wet soil, walked, along. as an Ardor of tin.