I flood my heart with memory. Again I see the sight Your moon-bathed hands enfold mine, And grip them as I type. And held in them I write these lines, And twice-reflected light Warms your skin and brights your eyes An incandescent white. While I read this poem, you kiss me. While I edit it, you wait, If I rush it, you forbid me, But it's already too late. So bathe your face for me, Guenevere, Gleam your eyes, and enfold My body in yours, Guenevere, The moon's fled and I'm so cold.