It is neither the delicate, but
Definite arching of your limbs,
Nor is it the constant and clever
Humor of your smile, and still it
Is not the sheen and shimmer of
Your desolate eyes, no, and yet
It is neither the tepid and tremulous
Breathing of your skin, nor is it the
Tender fever of your words, as it
Also cannot be the silent and
Imperfect flicker of your wit,
No, it is none of such styles and
Forms, done and undone, that
Move me as you sway time’s steady
Course, for me, you leave unscathed
And unharmed, but that which
Surrounds and supposes in a fashion
I call life, does sway and stagger by
The tremors of your beauty,
Untold, unknown.
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