he in gilded cage she trudges through days
spins words into naught gone to seed, wanting
toils at not working yet running on habit
poet wastrel, he she recalls vague hopes
dissipated waste rekindled each spring
child in man’s body something like youth swells
wishing for manhood breast fills with longing
ambiguous need striving for something . . .
certain as gravity more. life and light
yet undefined, blurred beauty, truth, passion . . .
something fateful comes out the blue it strikes
fortune plays her hand words like pollen fall
he and she and this into lines, multiply . . .
life gone on turns bright two lovers wake to dreams.