She once existed, and she will exist,
As a scent from trees, as a twilight mist,
But here I look at her mouth, just kissed
By so many kisses, kisses to replace
The first kisses that kissed her face—
Desire approving this death, time approving this place.
She exists, as romance strives romantically to be
Her face kissing the part of the face she is able to see.
Is there another reason for poetry?
She forgets the beginning, and doesn’t know how life ends
But feels the moment and how it tends
Not to be momentary, but is like the mist that gradually blends
With poetry always written for her,
Where those who belong to analysis are
Ignorant of why and when poetry shall occur.
