II
What have I done
to drive you away? It is
winter, true enough, but
this day I love you.
This day
there is no time at all
more than in under
my ribs where anatomists
say the heart is —
And just today you
will not have me. Well,
tomorrow it may be snowing —
I'll keep after you, your
repulse of me is no more
than a rebuff to the weather —
If we make a desert of
ourselves — we make
a desert . . .
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario