last night I pulled the stars,
swirling, quiet, bright
out of the cadence of your voice
the noise
the loss of which deafened me
quietly shaking,
you told me of breaking
of taking
of making a life of what you had lost
(don't pity yrself,
you have fingers that press;
you have sonnets that scream--
sad suns, sums of several sons!--
stars burning in stovepipes,
and a voice that sweetly speaks.)
I am too afraid to be too in love,
and both lead to hate.
I'll wait
for some professor to
profess her
richness, more bold and indulging than I