Untitled
Is it too much to ask for,
The self being contained
Under the snow of your eyes
Reaching out, never quite grasping
The height of the situation.
Some declare their intuitiveness
To be virtuous;
I declare their unvirtuosity
To be their downfall;
Like you with your austere manner
Of entrancing my hands to stay still
On the coldest day of the month,
On the coldest day of the year.
I don't know what this means. I think it sounds good, though.
