Sonnet CCLIII

I read her voice; I feel her sound; I hear her voice:
such is the spell that Emily still casts on me.
It’s only then – united through perception’s tree –
entwined between experience – we interlace.

The print is tactile, racing on my palms and face:
envelop me and let me ponder in your seas;
ignite my heart and send it spinning to the breeze;
exalt my sorrow – join it to your victim-tray.

And hang my heavy head to this – your clientele –
and cast a charm with ink, and dance your wicked spell.

Bewitch me; pour a poisoned potion; drown me now:
instruct me to behold myself in sorrow’s nest;
to fly away as birds, unto the rising West,
a voyage to a distant tree, a distant bough.