To Endymion

Really, when you think about it--
though I guess you wouldn't--
this is the most perfect
of perfect loves.

No Thursday night after nine years
will I catch you
with my sister. In dreams
you have us all, my dear. In dreams,
I don't mind.

No Sunday morning in January
will you barge in as I'm waxing;
never will you watch me
dig broken glass
from a hunt-night's feet.

I'll always be just this radiant
to you, my moonbound boy.
Besides, beloved, if you

could speak,
you wouldn't be
nearly so charming.

"Diana and Endymion" by Walter Crane.
More on Endymion here.
This poem needs a lot of work. Any suggestions?


Teri and the cats of Furrydance said...

See, I don't think it does. I feel it has pregnant moments, just enough pauses to stop and think, the what-if's...I like it the way it is.

Contessa said...

bberimLeave it alone. You convey, you covey.

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