Afraid that love was only lust,
Especially mine; how could I trust
That beauty would not tarry
By the brook, but would know—and marry?

The days were dark; there was little sin,
The sun peeped languorously within.
The sculpture of the blankets she tossed away
Was the only art in our horizontal day.

You ask what we did?  How did we do?
Oh, we talked of family, and we talked of you.
We guessed what songs lingered in a heart
Afraid of the future.  It was a start.


1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    June 2, 2015 at 11:18 am

    “It was a start.”

    Well, starting is half-finished….

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