If I am set in my maturing ways,
I may be now an octave not a note,
lest drawing years now catch me by the throat,
and victimless the world would seldom stay,
held dear, a crime of passionless embrace.
The echoes of the weapon on my neck,
the tumbling fingers keeping me in check,
the slant upon my skin of scar’s necklace.
I would be still a frightened Northern star,
now gleaming through each variegated tree,
aurora borealis glowed briefly
if I was to imagine life unmarred.
You sent me sterling, my lover was new,
I was to sail in a cedar canoe.