Your resurrection’s treading a pond’s ice,
Wending ’round something sounding like
Wedding belles clearing their throats on the night
Time led our lesson into flight.
Bid us reconvene if the fog of Pride
Might lift its veil and fix all sight;
Blushing wit conquering Winter’s torn blight
Pours through our blind masks, mastering
Back redacting gasps we were meant to sigh—
Weak’ning smiles, greeting our love-child.
Past the quarry, down The Clockmaker’s mile,
Barefoot steps hardened with snow-white
File; aching so bad to take a strange while
And turn it now into a kind
Of Renaissance kiss estranged from its frame
Onto our denial; we fall.
Wind soars all aglow, auroras bored of
Alias throw off light to show
Old Borden’s found the cure for fevered Love
In your face too pure to touch.