When the heart of the beloved melts,
As lover moves in with poetry and kisses,
She feels again the syllables she misses.
Poetry is perfect, song would be too loud;
Her skin receives the sighing words
Whispered slowly without shame.
Poets who die for love live for fame,
But this poet is happy—and gently gazes
At breast, neck, eyes, all the phases
Of a wormy love that writhes,
Longing to keep count of all the blisses;
A trivial poem will die for lust,
Caring not for virtue, the aesthetic, or the just,
Beautiful melting of melting skin,
So much beauty it is unaware of sin,
Beauty naked and naked without disgust,
Losing count of poetry in kisses.
