SONNET OF THE SWEET COMPLAINT

Don’t let me ever lose the wonder
of your eyes like a statue’s, or the stress
placed on my cheek at night.
by the solitary rose of your breath.

I’m afraid of being on this shore
a branch-less trunk: this deepest feeling
of having no bloom, or pulp, or clay
for the worm of my suffering.

If you’re my hidden treasure,
if you’re my cross, and my moist pain,
if I’m a dog, of yours, my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,
and decorate the branches of your stream
with the leaves of my enraptured autumn.