The thought

I will not write a poem for you,

because a poem, even the loveliest,

can only do what words can do -

stir the air, and dwindle, and be at rest.

Nor will I hold you with my hands, because

the bones of my hands on yours would press,

and you'd say after, "Mortal was,

and crumbling, that lover's tenderness."

But I will hold you in a thought without moving

spirit or desire or will

for I know no other way of loving,

that endures when the heart is still.