slam poetry

to what shall a woman liken her beloved
royal feast was done
let a joy keep you
love me at last, or if you will not
it was the autumn of the year
i see all human wits
sun and wind and beat of sea
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
stir
stern cold man
and so it goes