The Sorceress Passing Poem by Gordon R Menzies

Sometimes her breaths sound like footsteps
light footsteps coming near our own bed
she is circling my dreams, counting heartbeats
so that I think she is in the room with us
and she will not be confined by a name
or a face, or the colour of her portions
she is like a mist in the night dark air
Her softness leaves me hardened in passing
and she laughs beyond the window pane
when I give to one what belongs to another
only to be rid of the wanting of her, and
the climax is heard in a shattering of chains