Seven Strophes
I was but what you'd brush
with your palm what your leaning
brow would hunch to in evening's
raven-black hush.
I was but what your gaze
in that dark could distinguish:
a dim shape to begin with
later - features a face.
It was you on my right
on my left with your heated
sighs who molded my helix
whispering at my side.
It was you by that black
window's trembling tulle pattern
who laid in my raw cavern
a voice calling you back.
I was practically blind.
You appearing then hiding
gave me my sight and heightened
it. Thus some leave behind
a trace. Thus they make worlds.
Thus having done so at random
wastefully they abandon
their work to its whirls.
Thus prey to speeds
of light heat cold or darkness
a sphere in space without markers
spins and spins.
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