Tain

Think of a fountain, spewing water wide,
Recycling the liquid that it throws,
Pumping the product that was once outside
Back in and out until nobody knows
Which was at first the pool and which the stream.
Think of that image, and you see my love,
For what is real of her and what my dream
Of what she ought to be (fantasy of
A hopeful dreamer) cannot now be told
The one has matched its opposite so well.
I cannot now distinguish if that fold
Across her brow is what I used to tell
Myself I wanted, or just what I want:
But I can say I love her lovely font.