One can fix a ring upon a hand
yet never really breathe in 
sweetened, redolent romance reaping
gold from dark macadam stripped
or a tidy fist of dimpled filters, 
honey among a swoln hummock’s heart
we’d nestled there in fragrant talks, 
what figures tingling tongues unveil
from quietly crackling cherries’ traces—
rings unwound from silvery strings
that craze old Archimedes still.