in grief the snow falls silently,
but in love,
daisies sing verse--
and of you dulcinea
who are but breath,
oak, and sweet smiles--
of you, and out of pure feeling,
a yellow love grew and out-grew its coffin-board,
its rusty setting,
and outgrew its horizon of dusty mountain--
you tenderly uprooted I
from sleepy sages and hopeless candlelight,
until my heart improved under your love.--
you are no cactus but much more lily-like--
and so must i uproot you from cold insensate rock,
this sinful dirt and barren desert in Nevada,
to bring you nearer where your heart can be warmed--
... these thoughts as i look to you in love
and in wonder, wondering--
suspecting that all life's harrows can be seared to nothing by your sweet soul,
itself whipping death off our level, and treading on bad days--
and what of death should his cold grasp find us--
being from me to you an immortal reach,
an impossibly bright,
eternal reach--
when we're lying dead in wood, on wild stone,
i believe rejuvenescant love will allow us the hearing of sound--
of sound!
though buried far under thick desert rock,
buried with our lack of money in Nevada's brightest city,
even buried in picturesque Washington by visionary men dressed as music notes, or
buried with ecstasy in lonesome Idaho by our future children,
we will hear sound-- buried anywhere but
together buried,
deep under silent grief's gentle snow--
and we will hear together
in heavy depth,
a song in praise of our imperishable love--
a ceaseless love which sees us resting
together
in eternal Eros,
together,
in fact forevermore together,
hearing the soft poetry of daisies.
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