I Wanted Not to Write This Poem
I wanted not to write this poem.
I want to save your eyes for me,
enjoy you silently, just so
my hand is somewhere near your knee.
Your eyes, your dark bright eyes, your mouth
a hillock for your lips, your hair
that waves the way a child would, down
a bare lane, through the morning air,
are articles that I would keep
in some square safer than a piece
of paper, larger and less neat,
a bedroom or an isle of Greece,
but dear affection died between
your heart and mine. The stiff white death
that pens inflict on love now seems
the only voice for our hushed breath.