Never being, but always at the edge of being
My head, like Death-mask into the sun.The shadow poiting finger across cheek,
I move lips for tasting,I move hans for touching,But never am nearer than touching
Thoug the spirit lean outward for seeing.
Observing rose , gold, eyes, an admired landscape,
My senses record the act of wishing,
Whishing to be
Rose, gold, lands cape or anothes.
I claim fulfilment in the fact of loving