Meadow of matchsticks, soon to be rekindled by Spring the incendiary. The exact flame of your blossoms will ignite the passions happily sapped by time-- Dripdrop their excess went and now miners' hats light up like love before your vein, the frame of which is there to depict the drift, the waste when I painted all the review copies they sent me. But those books open to polar pages where you and I weigh the ends of this teeter totem down, you at the head and nadir me; where postmortem is the aura of self-portrait, its other half regained at last.