Enamoured by Aeons

The glands take time
to grow and shape themselves
so as to resemble
the delicate edges,
the infinitesimally defined
ridges and falls
that I see right upon
the shadowy margins of sleep.

There is no use to
forcing love. The heart becomes
as a stone and immoveable.
It will resist the roar of waves,
the thunder of doubt,
but the slightest of touches
shape it immeasurably
given hours of
generous misgivings.

So,
as all round your ankles
the ivy creeps,
I grow older
and, perhaps, in love.

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