I refuse to write poems of love
Bent over in the night struck down
When only its echoes I have felt
And its cadence I still seek
down lanes whose endings hint
of the sweet unfiltered sound
of the musings of the greek
and the earthiness of flint
No coloring of the agonies -
in which I've dwelt
Resembles the hue of the eyes-
when notions melt
And love's hand strips off its glove
To whisper the pen through
the poet's pale dawn
