Showing her immortal-
it's mine to do-
but I can't.
Shaping her-
just as she is-
a thing
to an eternity-
mood shaping form-
imperishable-
it's there-
I can see it-
but I can't say it.
There's no secret about it-
she tells it
every breathing, breathless moment-
I can hear it-
but I can't say it.
What can my mere
body and scrivening
leave you, if
it doesn't leave you her?
If I could transcribe
one infinitesimal phase
of the trillion-starred endowrment
which comes tumbling
out of simply trying to look at her,
or our of catching a glance,
slyly pointed,
trying to look at me,
stirring a trillion-starred emotion,
vibrating like a bell
across endless tides of endless seas-
I'd do it-
but I can't.
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