One day I wrote her name
One day I wrote her name in trampled sand.
Waves bustled in and pressed the wrinkles down.
I wrote again. A scrawl on London's Strand.
Buses waved in and crushed the chalk to brown.
But dirt can't hide nor water crush your rise
and if the heavens hate your heathen fame
still poems hold where bodies compromise.
So let them send fat reapers for your flame--
they'll smother some swift fire burning blue
but never see the sparking flint of you.