Each thing says one thing and the same:
I am me; who I am is what I do; my name
is flung like the tongue of a bell
rung, and I, young, le bête in the chill hall, a hell
of fame, pursue you, the belle of the ball.
Myself I speak before the fall,
before the wind with its wanderlust
blows away the leaves like mortal dust,
as fall they must,
the green, the red, the yellow, the rust.
As freedom to a slave, to a nomad is home,
or the scent of escape in the ocean foam
to the castled king, lusting for love.
The feet are cold, yet how like a fire
the hurt heart in the heat of her desire.