Little Jane

Dear Jane,

An hour earlier,

I wrote you a note in my head,

Jane, Jane, Jane,

All of you, you consume my waking heart,

Working and breathing, sleeping and resting,

Dreaming and dancing,

It’s always Jane.

As I find my virility in question

By a shadow of Shame in a locked up place, a raven that has my very body and voice—-my very hands, Jane—- curtailed

In my deepest recesses of poetic language

I find myself weathered and old,

As I am a man who knows how to make use of pain.

I think you most of all know how to make use of this very substance, as well, my very dear friend,

And yes, my love comes through in every syllable,

Until my dying breath,

Unless I am unable to write, I hope not,

As I Edward, long to keep the strings attached,

Knowing this is how it binds the little bird poetess Jane and Edward, the sad old man—-a poet in chains.