She leans on soft-point arms to disclose on
My shoulders; my edges; my burns; my stern
Knot-eyes. Her smile, not given but earned,
Means my shy comforts she must thus syphon.
She gives no credit – I’ll crave to be kissed…
But to who does she owe success? To me?
A day and one later, she’ll see it leave.
Dear, will you see through time’s mists what you missed?
Sweet swan, russet dove, I made not your wings,
But crafted your lines to make sweeter things.