dear heart, it's summer
and green in the garden
the rose stem hangs (drooping, and darling, why is that?)
from between Your grimace
petals (velvet never knew Your lips)
the violence of blood
envies the virginal white (You disagree and turn away)
pinched between My fingers
and though My poetry
lacks tact (amongst other things, sweetheat, You know)
real writers ink their fingers and scowl
at My heartfelt blunder (cummings never had it so good)
i would brighten this world with Your crooked teeth
and let the Important People work (let them die making coffins)
while You remind me that i am
