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.