O how to fan the flames that feed a heart?
Merely with a moving palm that stirs the air
to run in wafts of whispers athwart a chest.
But, in this day and age, would anyone still know
how to play and ply this one instrument of love,
remembering even—such fans’ secret alphabet
that unfolds now and then folds back the eyes’
winged, paired, and won eloquence and tongue?
Or isn’t a skillful kiss a well-wrought breath
that pins and amplifies one’s alighted sight,
rolling souls and their nights up to fulgent white?
And, as such, isn’t that breath and kiss one more
fan of flaming love? In the hands that met a dream
and live to tell … if, in that blaze, they still abide—
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