︎ Prev          Archive          Next ︎

Arnold Klein

Love, unnerved so,
And turned in like a fiddlehead whose crozier, curved so,

Introverts it,
Your shyness draws the notice that so disconcerts it:

Am I staring?
But turns this shy are due remarking this unsparing

For their rareness;
Nor will the fiddlehead’s volutes, for all May’s fairness,

Outlast Maytime;
So if your lover tries, what costs you so, to stay time

By his prying,
Love, unless he’d lose the sight of beauty, shying,

Pry he’s bound to;
For who can see the fiddlehead, itself turned round to

Form its crozier,
Without at once intruding on its self-enclosure?