What I do to her by doing nothing
Is more than anyone has ever done.
I was a rare flower she held.
Now I am the sun.
I am silent and far away,
No longer kissing her ear
And telling her how lovely she is.
Now she sees me every day
But I no longer move near
And say exactly what I’m thinking.
I am a blank face of simple fire,
No longer allowed to feel, or think, or have desire,
But like my cunning poetry which everybody reads,
I love her with an appetite that forgets it has needs.
She is courted by a distant sky and distant fields
Which love her only by being there. And she yields.