So that I mustn’t:
She eases the punctilious sting
Between my shoulder blades,
Levels my hands which quake
As with the trudging of my heels
As I am cudgeled and pressed
By certain unsympathetic obligations
From my lover’s lips in the evenings
And her warmth in the mornings.
She staves off the worry
That the inevitable and absolute
Evaporation of pleasure should
Defy my appreciation for its
Blunt covetous, outstanding.

I can’t be cheated by gravity
In such a heavy world.
I watch my misery ebb
From the fortune shore,
So that the ancient sands
Of ever-current happening
Recur and recur and recur.
She lets me do that.

But should I need:
I should smother sorrow
In timeless sands of
The morrow
Of tomorrow
In the morrow.

My lover is the hour-glass
In which those sands fall anyhow.
I should just attend her.

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