I’ve locked my sixteen-odd black waking safes;
The hoard is mine. The key is fastened, clasped
About my neck; my minutes will not pass
Through the crack you etch in my hourglass.
2.
He rails and strains, uncut, against the gates.
The horse is time, my seconds marking pace;
He races past the path: a wider place,
Where I, unmet, meet empty plains and sky.
3.
Our bed will be our table. Hours pass;
Our feasting binds the watch’s hands. We take
A ripened kiss, a glance from heaping plates –
Swing open, safes! Pour out! The stallion mates:
By tender talk and lock of loving eyes
We swell the falsely finite walls of time.
We swell the falsely finite walls of time.
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