Ay, weary—a’ know it, luve—o’ fits
an’ stairts a’ night as if yr banes
wer’nae right fit tae yr skin: & then
comes upon a thing hellblawn
as puir Francesca Dante doom’d.
What would a’ say to ye this morning
more than a’ h’ve said? Yr no yersel’
ye tell me—an’ who is it that is?
Ye tell me that ye dinnae hae a heart
—but how ye feel it so.
Luve is sic an easy word
ye say—there’s nae doubtin’
we shouldn’ay be repeatin it:
but actions tell us tae oursel’s;
can words no be coincident?
Howsoe’er it be this morning
dinnae fash. Ye haud on tae this
self-rancor o’er much: nae man
or wumman was made virtue
nor grace, there isnae sic a thing
as fause luve so the aim be true.
An’ as for you: you clesp this
blazin’ coal in the palm o’ yer haun’
an’ wilnae relent: yr no insane
juist wearit wi’ the world’s crave.
Lang syne y’h’ve haud it; ach but really
’s it that hings tae you—electro
magnetic like embrace o’ fire, gresping
as e’er the mechanisms o’ lust
or fash, or yr palm’s puir reflex.
A hear the experts use the outwith
o’ their haund tae testit heat, that way
instinct draws back, fingers close
on naething: so might you risk
a downed & tender for a calloused touch.