Love, procumbent,
Your spine is like a line of verse in braille one come bent
On one more touch
Can never touch enough, its spondills so do court touch:
When we part—what?
They say that verse was framed so men could learn by heart what
Bards gave voice to,
And Muses through those bards—and con would I rejoice to
What I now touch;
And if you chide your lover that to so endow touch
With retention
Too much exalts it, love, till you touch each indention
As this dunce has—
Like one who’d con a verse and finds he more than once has
To re-read it—
How tell if he aggrandize touch, or you exceed it?
Your spine is like a line of verse in braille one come bent
On one more touch
Can never touch enough, its spondills so do court touch:
When we part—what?
They say that verse was framed so men could learn by heart what
Bards gave voice to,
And Muses through those bards—and con would I rejoice to
What I now touch;
And if you chide your lover that to so endow touch
With retention
Too much exalts it, love, till you touch each indention
As this dunce has—
Like one who’d con a verse and finds he more than once has
To re-read it—
How tell if he aggrandize touch, or you exceed it?
