The crimson lake that laps her cheek,

her scarlet kiss, her madder hair

once singed the virgin martyr page

but taper down at last to this:

Red language, words incarnadine;

black scrawl in sifted ash.

When I have fears that I may cease

to speak before my sullen sun

and garner dark at length in day,

then on the shore I stand at night

and hear the empty rollers break,

black wash against the stones.

Words weigh more than words can bear.

No props, no guys, no stays can save

this solid world from solid fall.

Too dense dead stuff; these words, this love:

the rouge on corpses, whited graves,

black shards of broken glass.