One I popped out around a year and a half ago and forgot about.
What would ensure that She had known from me
She was the bone stripped from my opened side,
Scarred where in my fast sleep the wound gaped wide,
Or had She seen me so, how answered She?
For She is now surpassing beauteous,
Past the pale promise of her ivory,
But She knows not herself, no more than me;
And we, once one, what love lies left to us?
I would not fright her by some dear disclosure,
Though She is I, the growth of my flesh. She
Disremembers her first deep rest in me,
And it lies not to me to rest in her.