To be in love with death
is to be in love with mystery
and perfection of the human form.
What form that is
I rush to say
your form of grace
your lips of red and green
You taste of apples
and the sea, of endless
song and endless night.
Your eyes so dark
the moon cannot
but fail to see --
O sweet perfection
are you tonight,
soft your breast,
soft your hand
about my throat.
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