No matter if my fingers can keep pace,
My mind is always gyrating of her,
Imagining reactions that take place
A thousand times without a sound or stir,
For they are tested only in my mind
Which whirls in wondering about her sphere
And seeks out practices wholly designed
To make her happy and to keep her here.
I cannot write them down; they are too quick,
Too insubstantial in my striving brain,
For them to often permanently stick.
Instead they rerecur in endless train
And I record those which my fingers seize
Leaving the others as a hopeless tease.
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