"THE ACID OF THE HEART BLEACHES MY MORNING..."

The acid of the heart bleaches my morning.
The cleverness of lust grows commonplace.
Thought is intangible and has no meaning.
One who came gently with a winter's grace
into the fire of passionate concealing
turns with remoteness to a shrouded face,
the body a bandage over feeling:
the limb torn off, its agony remaining.
All endures, the waiting the defiling.
Thought is intangible and has no meaning.

Now all our minutes dream of aftermaths,
and the returning dust becomes a symbol.
We lie alone dying incessant deaths
but it is not for dying that we tremble:
here at a touch the lemon-painted flax
the jewelled mummy of our years may crumble;
Marvell's chariot thunders at our backs;
time passes time, the dream seductions pass,
into this wind of blood this wandering sex.
The cleverness of lust grows commonplace.

I the endurer am the mocker of me.
One who was music is a silent house:
under the hammers of this iron sea
the light arms of love turn tremulous
and there is no assurance between kisses.
Oh it is all uncertainty of choice
as the achievement or the humour passes
- thought being intangible, having no meaning
- as after dreams of horrors or embraces
the acid of the heart bleaches my morning.