Before I had a house, I made a broom 
and swept clear ground to draw a mate. 

I laid my broom and my lover stepped over it: 
his kiss went in without a wimble! 

Hunger was dropping from his nose, 
he built our house . . . Then came my fears: 

that mice-footprints should pit the dust, 
hopping toads and crawling snakes: 

that bread should moulder, milk go dry 
and cobwebs blowse among the rafters: 

my broom wear out: and forlorn ghosts 
wander for love from room to room: 

that a man with a shovel should stand by the door 
and a woman with a bag should sit on the roof! 

For how lovely, to the fleshless, bare bones are! . . . 
But to sweet lovers there is only Spring.