Tonight, your form does not inspire me, Love; my solitude is not inspiring. Although I may have you dance Whatever dance my hand would chance, I would feel strange with you here In my room. What are you doing, dear? I would ask. Dancing here at this time Of the night? —No, your rhyme Does not inspire me. My form Isn’t perfect. God knows what informs My impression of you. Not your hands And not your smiles though far apart Ease my lonely heart and satisfy me. But don’t go to pieces. Work for a whole.
December 1972