Incidentally I found you
crossed at all the tender places
able to interpret glances
as the synonym of gifts
your attenuated smile
speaks to me in metamorse
all the richer through long quietness
and the intervals of weeks.
I would give you wine, should I
feel your thirst about my wrists
pulsing in an echolation
of the constancy of fits.
Incrementally I'll sound you
hospitable in small traces
ladelling the old romances
through the synastry of lifts
you're a suiter for a while
stealing on a burning horse
all these pictures of delighting
through the liquor of antiques.