prose poetry

to what shall a woman liken her beloved
high-born race
better than granite
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
let me be sad
since, if you stood by my side today
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
as a white candle
days endeared to every muse
i saw the first pear
calm as that second summer
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
in halls of sleep you wandered by