6.30 it is – so be it.
I did not sleep my morning spree,
Yet, wide awake, I listen to the Sirens
Of an early bubbling coffee.
Launching these words in orbit,
Language modelled by a lover’s touch,
Up close, the poets own and dear possession.
In an icy universe of alien unknowns,
The property of strangers.
All writing, after all, is done for readers.
Love cannot be the solipsist’s adventure,
It needs an overture,
It wants to speak and to be spoken to,
Yet fearing most the critic’s vile vituperation –
A spring song it shall be,
And off with thee,
Off with her head, flung into space:
I love thine evening grace
I love thine morning space
I love thine open face,
Thine beauty, though, has such a pace
That my aesthetics loose the race
So here it is: