DECEMBER 4

Whys and ares, sees, be
close to you, I, close
as letters and tresses.
They disdain each other,
see, three rows back,
embittered (not) lovers'
contact.

Before they met they
piped on down, timed
and perplexing. Not the
object of fear quite not
beneath

the terminal grandiose stairway
above in the sense
of roped off, save–
I call you, face of the meek
Host!
Be, always, like vision
endless as our life is,
endless in song for
thou that art.