I will not write a poem for you,
because a poem, even the loveliest,
can only do what words can do –
stir the air, and dwindle, and be at rest.
Nor will I hold you with my hands, because
the bones of my hands on yours would press,
and you’d say after, ‘Mortal was,
and crumbling, that lover’s tenderness.’
But I will hold you in a thought without moving
spirit or desire or will
for I know no other way of loving,
that endures when the heart is still.