I bled but did not die,for I was unable to lose
a single thought of you:
I could not unsee the airor the sun breathing mind
into bonds of green —
I do not love the chainsor the cuffs my words imply,
but I’ll wear them till I die.
Just as well I’m the seed-less fruit without harvest —
one cannot reap becoming,
though summers find us wholeor the jealousies of spring
wither on the winter vine:
if You are still here with us,let’s decreate the darkness
that stowed the captive light.