math poem

here lies a most beautiful lady
i can not tell you now
birds against the april wind
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
as a naked man i go
to some the fat gods
the stars fell from heaven
splendid and terrible your love
she might have known it in the earlier spring
when you come tonight
a few more windy days
daughter, thou art come to die
as i lie roofed in, screened in
my true love from her pillow rose