Like a wave poised high on the crest of its intake,
restrained as only one in love can be,
my parched tongue is withheld from its ultimate slake,
curled taut on the threshing floor of an unswept sea.
Your true composite to which I aspire
has drifted off into a haze of selfless parts;
and my cadence is like unto an unstrung lyre,
humming through turbid spheres and milky charts.
You return in a spiral of broken cognates
and spell the canonical hours I once rehearsed,
left to a wash of betokening traits
whereof I will construct a mythy universe
in which the spent moon spins on a heedless swivel
and the stars repeat their creedless drivel
and my love is an astral lex-i-cog-ra-phy.
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