Reason

Time eats me, these compositions
Of minute detail that bite
The way they pass,
And I want to be dark,
And have dark lips,
Sun-streaked and sad;
Soft jade too, but fine
As thin threads
That I might comb with long
Fingers, like a harp...

These obscurities
Are paradisal,
And they still glisten,
If obliquely, why
I whisper.