More By This Poet
savage—dense to kill—
pulls back on backward-moving,
high legs still,
lowered through a deep, knees-reaching,
carpeted as if with skill,
tracing, killing will.
Sir, I am not a bird of prey:
a Lady does not seize the day.
I trust that brief Time will unfold
our youth, before he makes us old.
How could we two write lines of rhyme
were we not fond of numbered Time