Innominata Poem by Richard George

We have been in this dumb show now for ten years.
I have witnessed you mature
blossom-lush to magisterial.
Still you tremor me.

Your attitude
to my blind importunate stare
has grown from furious through pity
to a queen's pride, assuming
adoration as your birthright.
I caught you once looking at me
with what I liked to believe
was the briefest scintilla
of affection.

We must never speak, never.
How high is our tightrope?

Underneath what surges?

What poetry have - will I guess
consumed by the unknown
universe of your name?