You are cold and estranged;
Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface.
You are thin and very tall;
My palm can cover your mouth.
Your lip curves but a little;
Around your throat
My two hands meet,
And then part as I follow the swelling
Rhythm that downward widens,
And I pass around and under,
And the returning line
Ebbs home.
Beneath your feet I touch cold marble;
My hand returns
To sleep upon your breast
Dreaming it warm.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 79
ONLY the wise can see me in the mist,
For only lovers know that I am here
After his piping, shall the organist
Be portly and appear?
Pew after pew,
Wave after wave . . .
Shall the digger dig and then undo
His own dear grave?
Hear me in the playing
Of a big brass band . . .
See me, straying
With children hand in hand . . .
Smell me, a dead fish . . .
Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .
Someday touch me, all you wish,
In the wide sea.