That They Who Follow Might Learn Poem by Alexander Hawkins

Ideas from the dark shadow of your head
are concurrently cast as you converse.
Dark stuff that, to be sure. I would coerce
more cheery matter for us to natter.
‘Is this your receipt? ' No child, it isn't.
But youthful bounciness is widespread
and contrasted by the grim nearly dead
whose end they procrastinate. Better
you bargain than give in to your blood-letter.
When wild weather is weary, then who acts
as pathetic fallacy? I relax
when you lay supine on our comfy bed,
when softly you tilt your curved, pretty face.
An elegant miracle; sadness debased.