Death is best left
unless, by dead, you meant
my last stiff whisper, cold-
kissed by your lips of stone;
we two old friends who part …

There was an art,
they say,
they hint (vague by intent,
in muffled tones to hold
your ears), in making known
each to each what each thought …

Love is best sought
in Spring,
Not now with the sap spent;
supposing I had told
you, anyway; my own
mute love still had no breath.





Copyright: Richard Fox 1970
All rights reserved


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Filed under My poems, Poetry

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