You’re in the amber lucid reflection
Where I drown down in a light translucent
Well of sorrow. Below a buffalo,
Between eternity and cynosure,
Where the radio universe discloses
Ink’s withered visage as shadowed
Oscillations to thee in five-foot steps
Laid out as clumsy, odd, osculate steppes.
Can I call you Green, Elisabeth? Or
Is there another color in this look? For
To shed my thoughts upon such ear soft down,
To pray a book of hours in your sweet sound…
Or have I been waterless yet gifted
And mistaken politeness for a thread?
Where I drown down in a light translucent
Well of sorrow. Below a buffalo,
Between eternity and cynosure,
Where the radio universe discloses
Ink’s withered visage as shadowed
Oscillations to thee in five-foot steps
Laid out as clumsy, odd, osculate steppes.
Can I call you Green, Elisabeth? Or
Is there another color in this look? For
To shed my thoughts upon such ear soft down,
To pray a book of hours in your sweet sound…
Or have I been waterless yet gifted
And mistaken politeness for a thread?