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You do not, will not, know those lengths to
Which my efforts would reach to comfort you
Though it is that very reach from which you
Recoiled when once I tried to kiss you
There would be quiche and earl grey at
Vernal daybreak and though the seasons die
Autumn pies and vapors uplifting would sew
You into comfort with Newfoundland wool on your
Cool skin, nestled in the leaves of which my arms and core
The rooted trunk and branches
The wet morning cutting and crisp and streaming with sun through
Windows ajar, just so
Filling the spaces which hold clouds and possibility.

I did not intend this poem nor these words
Its total form or content
because what I intended is too intensely
Hateful and terrifying.

And within love for you I no longer wish to dwell
Yes just as unbidden
Its origin, likewise so
Its termination
Unbidden and at present persisting and so
I merely record the path and the wake
Neither much more my making as I only seek
To die as soon as possible to this
Envelope of experience which once I thought
To be a doorway -