Granadilla

I cut myself upon the thought of you

And yet I come back to it again and again.

A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out
From the dimness of the present

And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses.
Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance,

I touch the blade of you and cling upon it,

And only when the blood runs out across my fingers

Am I at all satisfied.