The Wee Hours

One of the only things I know by heart…

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones

When small birds sighed she would sigh back at them

Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one

the shapes a bright container can contain

Of her choice virtues, only God should speak

Or English poets who grew up on Greek

I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek

How well her wishes went

She stroked my chin

She taught me turn, and counter-turn, and stand

She taught me touch, that undulant white skin

I nibbled meekly from her proferred hand

She was the sickle, I, poor I, the rake

Coming behind her for her pretty sake

But what prodigious mowing we did make

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose

Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize

She played it quick, she played it light and loose

My eyes they dazzled at her flowing knees

Her several parts could keep a pure repose

Or one hip quiver, with a mobile nose

She moved in circles, and those circles moved

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay

I’m a martyr to a motion not my own

What’s freedom for?  To know eternity

I swear she cast a shadow white as stone

But who could count eternity in days?

These old bones live to learn her wanton ways

I measure time by how a body sways

(I’ve forgotten/not included the punctuation…shapes change when words become memories…)

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