Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or t
tary rose of your breath
places on my c night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a brancrunk, and regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my reasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose w I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
ranged Autumn.