Jan 302015
 
I who would love hot am ribboned cold
By flying knives of your sighing;
I who would live all my blonde, baby days am old
Solomon in his windings,
Trussed for dead and my meat heart sold
To buy my bindings.

And this alone is love, and love alone is this
In our modern charnelhouse;
As winding worms, plunged crucified to fish,
Rise resurrected in fishes' bowels--
In love alone persists our one presentiment of bliss
Windy as a rose.

Kicked crawling by paradox who would kiss the truth,
I fly to you sighing;
Bitten to blood stitches by beauty's tooth,
I kiss you where you're lying.
And O I'd trade rose and heart and all for your charnal mouth,
But O I am dying.

And this alone is love, and love alone is this
Which leaves us bound or binding;
The timid touch of love, that once coughed soft as whispers, 
Wails its unwinding--
I swallow again the reeling worm that love hooks with
And fly to you sighing. 

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