Sappho with violets in your smile,
why lie awake counting the Pleiades?
Why pace the grey shore
with the sea hissing of lost lovers
when my arms are warmer than the white of waves,
the sweet and sharp of your skin like Pramnian wine?
Come here to me and I will leave my husband dreaming,
the stars to circle in the wandering sky.
My hair darkens in the shadow of your hand,
but yours blooms silver, shining like the foam
of the morning you leap, not ageless, singing,
from that bright cliff of days.