These four sets, combination of the two souls, meeting one,
Is where I plot and pose, my heart strung into motion:
Mirage in tweed, grown to know the strong Maria in stone,
In spite of the tension, there it is: perpetual emotion.
What details I can pick up; yet what is it that I do receive?
Transmission blocked by another mane of ditzying curls,
Leaving the crossed-out print of one who will deceive,
And images of isolated courtship, the not-mentionable in whirls.
Hollywoodians can show love in actions; an Oxonian in equations,
But what an Oxford Man I have known! Amidst actions-
Trials and turbulence of truth falsified always by persuasions-
No Bronzes for that one who must need to refuse protections;
If performance is denied, then daily I am getting better,
Intensity is not asked, simply writing my blood in love.
My lips for arid kisses can be sent silent in the letter;
In poetry alone can the read be shifted by the reader’s touch.