Ancient knaves of hearts play
and draw you; among their games
of chess, neutral as the stairs.
Under low-lying umbrellas and
remembrances of tea, a Sorrow
grows its hunger for your embrace
with an enormity of a sea.
Time with reckless ardour, opens
your pavilion of impermanence.
Retrieved from its aristocratic journey
of our secret self; this devotional forest
of your thousand Summers’ fugue.
All mouth, your eyes resound.
