Nightingale
A tiny dark bird,
Abigail—
So lovely and fair ;
I would paint you
With words
But you wash
The canvas black
With your dark hair.
You spoiled
My perfect record
Of loneliness,
Now there’s nowhere
To hide,
I flee inside
To my heart’s empty places,
my heart transparent,
helpless as a dove.
I would cherish you
But I am too frightened
To sing your praises
Or name my love.