by Andrew M. Harbach04 Jul 2015
Am I a fleeting stage?
A quiet name caught in the rain?
--within a book, another page?
For you to never read again?
Am I of soap and lavender?
To kiss you--to touch your skin and face,
Only to become a bar inadequate--
And by a vernal one... soon replaced?
It is by thoughts, not by your deeds,
That I do think these incorrigible things.
But is it all unvarnished tale?
And might you speak in more than braille?