I've never read such poetry;
I've never touched one art;
that drowned me with its artistry,
yet flushes breathing my heart,
but yours of angel's craft;
of worthy gods whose powers
worked only yours for yours;
but unlike flowers,
unlike the earthly greenery;
nor the universal shimmers,
but quite as blinding;
as nothing I've seen glimmer;
but it never snobs
holding, pumping my heart,
in need of breathing call;
but never ends nor start,
a blue moon in rarity;
an unplanned perfection;
one magic I believe
of artistic religion,
in churches of delicacy,
I worship this tension;
your beauty have planted
just enough for seduction;
for I'm persuaded strong;
better yet, captured;
so helplessly pleasing
crush me, not just fracture;
for your beauty feels death;
not the roses I've stolen,
now my living's content;
since you caught me, I've fallen.
