I love this giving my life to you,
or to anyone who knows someone who knows you,
caught as I am in your curling hair,
inside your Kashmiri-witch eyes.

Held like this, to draw in milk,
no will, tasting clouds of milk,
never so content.

Since I’ve been away from you,
I only know how to weep.

Like a candle, melting is who I am.
Like a harp, any sound I make is music.

What I most want
is to spring out of this personality,
then to sit apart from that leaping.
I’ve lived too long where I can be reached.