Flowers, always touched
by arranging hands
(hands of girls, now and of yore),
you lie on the garden table, perhaps from edge to edge,
weary and gently injured,
(hands of girls, now and of yore),
you lie on the garden table, perhaps from edge to edge,
weary and gently injured,
awaiting the water
that will briefly restore you
from commencing death—now
gathered between the streaming poles
of their feeling fingers, wanting to do
from commencing death—now
gathered between the streaming poles
of their feeling fingers, wanting to do
more than possible,
as you foresaw, still easy for them,
as you recover in the jug,
cooling slowly in girl warmth—like confessions
from you taken, like dark, tired sins
as you recover in the jug,
cooling slowly in girl warmth—like confessions
from you taken, like dark, tired sins
again to them, that you are bound to bloom.
Sonnets to Orpheus, Second Series, 7
