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.