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.