The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale lightof thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins;secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius;some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a pagewhere words appeared; the bent hammer of the typestruck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves;the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were paintedby some unknown impressionist. . Ruth Stone
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The campus, an academy of trees,under which some hand, the wind's I guess,had scattered the pale lightof thousands of spring beauties,petals stained with pink veins;secret, blooming for themselves.We sat among them.Your long fingers, thin body,and long bones of improbable genius;some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.That simple that was myself, half conscious,as though each moment was a pagewhere words appeared; the bent hammer of the typestruck against the moving ribbon.The light air, the restless leaves;the ripple of time warped by our longing.There, as if we were paintedby some unknown impressionist.

Source: In The Next Galaxy

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