I Shouldn't Talk

I touch to tone fresh lips,

sustained in fresh wheat hay,

bestowed by thou

who calleth second

to turn the clock hands

twice.

 

 

your supple dreams,

how they endured me;

pieced to piece each reckless

afternoon due east

running far and transfixed,

perplexed, and fine mixed

into tricks

only I do know well.

 

 

 

but when I look into your eyes, my dear,

nothing,

can compare

to the sound device.