We know by heart by now
these supplicant stabs and scratches,
which are my best hand,
cannot rewrite the wrongs
in seconds quickly sewn
and by the clock compounded.
And though my heart to you belongs
neither will the keen edged lilt of songs
unwound beneath Orion's bright-brave belt
jolt the heart's asynchrony aright.
Let me yet conspire to cajole,
from your broad repertoire of joy,
a single, winsome grin again.
For old Time's unslaked march
might somewhat abate
if I should fling a fearless,
Spring-swollen river
of ink stained paper-poem planes
into the dew-damped,
sullen nights moonspilled cup.
Unskein that oft invoked thread,
your precious patience, dearest;
let grow a silken smile
about your gen'rous mouth,
forget the syncopes
which afflict this brain,
and 'scape these slack lips.
See? The night, she skitters,
falls and trips into the day...
So let me feel, once more,
forgiveness play angelic
through your fingers’ tips
while a well attended
sun wakes brightly up.
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