your grace,

sat silent with flowers,
behind me, above me
gracious, spacious skies
for which we stayed,
held our breaths.

for such is poetry!
purest theory without premise
but a promise to profess—

once modal, bare;
at once methodical—
to near scare!
now, moody, naked,
and with its airs.

what of man
and its good manners wrought:
held to a word, growing thought.

maybe she’ll hear me, then—
may they all,
and without a letter read,
but by the single fear
we all know.

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