shakespeare, dark fairies, The Faerie Queene,
wipe the counters, wash the delicates,
play with the wizard-kitten, forget you exist (or don't)
toil in the pages of darker ages past,
plug into headphones carved from apple, drumbeats pulse
and twice-forlorn twangs of distant heartache
radiate between my ears
book leaves turn, pens scratch, macs type, eyes blink
icicles melt, perhaps to fall and penetrate my heart,
or puddle to create a slickness that makes my feet falter
and the days lengthen, and the eventide of my departure draws close
perhaps I am only Echo, to repeat your words as you gaze into rivers,
or perhaps I am Psyche, forbidden to gaze on you and when lamps are lifted, too late.
but I hesitate to haunt the cavern of tomes where I know you reside,
because I can't decide if which is worse (being your Echo or your Psyche)
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