I'd forsake the proffered stars for ash, for this

Some kisses subtract known from unknown 

until what the sky offers, what it seems to offer, 

is lost. Each minute lived in longing 

makes the next one slower. 

Dusty-skinned pears, persimmons 

ripen in the bowl. Some men know. 

And falling to the drawn-out days of passion, 

to arms, to the small 

possibilities of teeth, I'd forsake 

the proffered stars for ash, for this. 

[Cullen Bailey Burns 'Fervor', from Slip]