Threads weaved about, curves among blessed curves,
A small pup in your shadow,
You’ll scorn the thing to its hiding,
With lips made of scarlet stripes.
To some painter with his wielded brush,
To some sculptor with his hands in the white,
To each golden bit of skin, with golden highlights,
In satin and velvet, there is you, with face full of laughs.
I am in love with you,
There are spiders in your hair,
And laughter on your cheeks,
There may be sorrow clinging to somewhere sweet,
So that it no longer shows its teeth.
I find sweetness in every breath of yours,
For I am in love with the fruit,
The apples held close to your bosom,
The pears and oranges, too.
All sweetness, alike you.
There may be something wrong here.
There may be something worse here,
Where you have said,
“No good will come from between us,
No liveliness will sprout from my womb,
No currency to our palms,
Nor the thoughts of ongoing, from our heads.”
And yet, I still love you,
I will play along, for the while,
Will you allow me, in our highest disappointment?