Dear and far,
far have you flown,
flown to the East,
East and to the sea …
Stretched so thin are you and I,
phantoms disarranged on either side
of this veil of miles immeasured.
But still the still sky
is lit with your fires.
Not by some trick of conjuring,
do I force you into fullness,
to taste you, to pluck your ripeness
from the winding vine,
but by the wine of sheer and unsated
By need do you flower–
fleshly petals, red-lipped stigma,
tongue of nectar.
Tend to my longing!
For gold is only copper
to your closeness.