Watching the candle burn through a spider’s-web of your hair,
I saw hot words.
Letting the sea go by in short taut waves,
I rode high words.
Turning you stood: your back in tranquil light.
I had done with words.
At the top of the stair the black of my inside
was bile of words.
I looked down at the lighted hall; my breath
was muddy swear-words –
in a cold black circle nowhere was where I lived:
a dead centre. Dead words.
Lost, I saw you it seemed for the first time
at your science-book words.
In your motives and days you are with me or not. (I have heard
you say dear words.)
Watching you tend the plants though after dark,
I held green words.