My heart is a slovenly russet peasant-girl
Flirting with staidly immaculate swains.
And mine is summer-rain
Strewing itself in mirthful swirls
Over the odorous pain of flowers
That long to dance.
My heart will walk through yours,
Holding its crushed robe in both hands
And quieting, with gentle nakedness,
The mirthful rain and odorous pain in your heart.
When your heart leaves mine it will be an old woman
With two of my shrunken flowers for her breasts.