The Arbor

He seems to he a god, that man Facing you, who leans to be close,

Smiles, and, alert and glad, listens To your mellow voice And quickens in love at your laughter That stings my breasts, jolts my heart If I dare the shock of a glance.

I cannot speak,

My tongue sticks to my dry mouth,

Thin fire spreads beneath my skin,

My eyes cannot see and my aching ears Roar in their labyrinths.

Chill sweat glides down my back,

I shake,

I turn greener than grass.

I am neither living nor dead and cry From the narrow between.