My eyes hold yours like (mon dieu
you're fragile) violets fluttering
in an April wind,
exposed
under glaring day.
But you don't shrink nor
do violets - that's a myth -
but coyly
hang in gladdest garlands sure
sweetness of late Spring on
my
nose
and, my darling, make me close
my eyes till they match
the darkness (oh so cool, yes)
of violets and of you
and pray for night