Vivienne

Out from under, 
some swallow’s tail dead, 
from the cold no child will know, 
a poison trickling, 
a stopper wished but faintly, 
to fate’s ends, dreamt awake she would, 
to make out or off, 
but reason nay, 
for mine own spring it is, 
that swallow wing, 
my throat did breathe not hers, 
only echoing did she muster, 
or so memory would bent be while, 
delusions like steam, pulse forth anon, 
fogging the view ever more, 
of my dearest my darkest, Vivienne.