Love, again still,
But like the note that sympathetic strings, till then still,
Start to hum to,
Your beauty is the thrill your sitter must succumb to:
Shall I woo touch?
To sympathetic strings, the thrills from strings hands do touch
Must transmit cross
An interspace – so what makes closing this we sit cross
Seem so urgent?
Don’t painters stand well back from the motifs emergent
On their panels?
And, careless as he is through which, of many channels,
Of beauty thrills the poet, if I had a basis
To prefer one,
Love, would it surprise you were that chosen were one
You so surcharge
That seeing thrills; and space suffices to transfer charge?