Even cream in a wound would hurt
like salt: an idea about catching
birds’ tails becomes love’s other idea
that the lady likes pain for herself
if the hurt be enough for one only.
O she is his only one, to be hurt.
Birdsong rested during flight.
Then the cardinal sang tree to tree
to his mate springing into free
air the excitation of the promised.
She would be his; he, hers. Under
leaves we watched, on whom would fall.
A season’s time’s real landscape
where we live, and snow covers us
who were willing then to do anything
in warmth where we pleased. Then please
listen, Dear. If I should hurt your ear,
it’s not the music’s fault to be fair.
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