Little Song

/ /

I vow, I vow I shall
coin for you more
aurous lauds,
greater tender of praise
than fleshed woman
has ever known,
than calf or fool or
trouvère has strewn. I swear
to pronounce your eyes,
throat, your calves and ankles,
from rooftop shingles,
and pledge not to
abridge, not fizzle or dud
till words from my tongue
no other has sung
nor thrilled any ears,
no voice ever heard,
all held in my hoard have
been spilled, your
sapidity unveiled,
and Orpheus, re-sewn,
pieced back bone
by bone, risen to cry
your song finer fire,
shimmered more than all
other, giving pudding
of proof. This
my oath and my troth.