This Winter

House of Heart

I will  indulge the unconventional,

prefer the natural over avante garde.

On a  mossy  hill behind a mock castle

we will  read Aristophanes  to harems

of nymphs as they strum their Lyre for you.

While  you transform words into wings

flitting the hearts of lovers I will

contemplate the perfect angle of your face,

breathe the amber resin of pine that

permeates our senses.

There  in the unruffled pools of your eyes

I will die just a little.

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