Friday, December 4, 2009

Second Love Sonnet (2)
How odd that I cannot resent this weight.
Your head is pressing on my throat; I’ll wait
until you are entirely asleep
before I move: this forehead is the same
you touched to trace for me the way your deep
and laughing wrinkles will appear. That game
was serious: you traced my fated seams
as well, and said you hoped I would not mind,
that all my worried multiplying streams
would spill across my face, and you would find
them wonderful. This is untenable:
I cannot sigh or swallow, so I take
your head in trembling soft treasonable
hands: you murmur, but you do not wake.

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