My lovers lips cleft in That satisfied sigh,
Like the gentle moan of enlightened winds.
The ancient yogis brave ancient mountains,
To perch upon mystic peaks, where such
Primal primacy speaks through pristine sky.
The savage cabal, the lonely heart's spy
Lurks in the phantoms of windowpanes,
The frost of cherub's smiling into fountains.
The dirge of wind keening through towers makes
Skeleton steps of the tree branches glassy rime.
Dawn is harsh to hands bound by turning time,
Which takes too eager glimpses between rooftops
And their gray peaked, pauper prince countenance.
Her mourned for absence will be beautiful in triangular ways -
It's inevitable, pattern of firsts; A kiss, A sigh, A goodbye.
(It's killing me I can't figure out how to make the last line one syllable shorter. No more love poetry about women and math at the same time.)
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