sonnet

oh, darling to your pallid skin it clings
to flesh and flesh alone in august’s heat
amongst your gardening movements you sing
your white, thin summer dress misses not a beat

and from the brambles, glass eye raised to mine
i kneel upon leaves and fallen boughs
and sing to myself some paean lines
which arc crescendo, then decrescendo

like this, i have watched for sarcous eclipse
to fill your evening bedroom window panes
like any patient man with wont of glimpse
with rods and cones from the dark of your lane


some night soon, i will descend upon you
like some blood red bird, offering its hue