by Gray Davidson
And ye were to turn to glass,
'Twould be a graceful turn.
Thou wouldst be caught at the window,
But from its hardened visage
Turning, Yearning, to face me.
Thus wouldst thou freeze,
And evermore, the line of spine,
Thy lifted arm, lifted eyebrow
Would question me to myself,
And cut me close, this sharpest wit,
Sharp as shattered glass's sting.