The swallow, darting like my heart, flies into the upper rafters of the hayloft.
She holds the new-mown whisps of hay,
swerving--a pendulum presence--as you capture the beating of my heart.
Up, into the dark, upper recesses of this passionate, crimson bed,
the altar of my soul,
and your face, so inquisitive with youthful emotion, breath that comes in quick gasps,
touch of softness from the hay,
darting, free bird in your eyes,
we wonder at a flaming barn in sunset!
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