Woolgathering of Nights
When the twentieth beam
Of her baggy cheeks
Checks out the fortieth cheer
Of my suggestive eyes,
She forward passes in silence
A round, searing air
We both share between us
In our unexciting igloos.
When her flowing tresses
Volunteer some chic air
To weave the clean magic
She considers wicked,
Her brainpower outlines
Petty links of a wiry passion
Which never bind, only compel
Her ditch-digging moral sense.
She is a spanking new time
In bright, fleshy tissue.
A thin fealty or a loath century
That has played truant to me.
Whether she was not on time,
Or was I too early on here,
There will be no date to measure.
The tryst too will never be,
For a dim era has over-timed us
In frame, and in fancy too. And also
Because a bumpy fact has overrun
The woolgathering of nights.
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