Your poems, clutches of bright set gold
at the hardware store at twilight on Sunday.

                            I chose black at the store on Sunday.
                            Black my favorite—color of your hair.

My sweet, I never took black locks of your hair,
or conjured bonds locking our true small hands.

                            Lavish the secrets of your true small hands
                            which secretly reach the length of my leg.

You’re a cat, curled close comfy around my leg.
Smoke curling comfortable coming again.

                            I’ll smoke with you from time to time again,
                            Time our servant will never grow old.

From now, as you’re mine I’ll serve, ’til I’m old,
your poems, clutches of bright set gold.