Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like frame, or the pleasure
the solitary goal from your boot
places on my lips at night.
I am afraid of being, lest you score,
a rudderless ship, and what I most regret
is having no sextant, chart, or sail
to lead me from despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the mantle of your head
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.