of this lovely summered realm, or
rather sitting here in my lonely bedroom, sussed
out by my heart, beating faintly like wings.
I think of you, how I'd like to settle
into your air, down to your wet ringlet rings,
get tangled in you, as if in your hair, sore
to lay this brood, and not be cut down like a nettle.
I don't want to come back yearly
to this same annual point, pinged
into this blind night abuzz, yet merely
moved on like an unloved pest, and racquet-torn.
I sit here by this window, the hills lovely and vast,
hearing wings buzzing faintly - into your future; into my past.