Aug 212011
After a time to be no more
The balm and butter of desire, 

Damned to dawdle and adore
Tussled husks of cobs gnawed raw

In a moonlight that was true,
In the decapitated orbit of recollect. . . .

What love, at best, should let drop 
No hammer and no forge 

Can resurrect. . . .  the flight of a fallen leaf 
Whose gold is almost gone.

Desire, the anaconda in the groin,
Turns to stone the tenderness 

It had kissed, crimps in moaning tongs
Tender hands prayer had held aloft

And leaves, at best, a remaindered sigh
-- A cruft.

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