Vow


But I will love
Each spoonful of myself
And measure me like
inches of gold, loosely
But with great selfishness
for publishing the value
and holding the cones of light
in my own good-eyes.

The circumstance rings
Itself out of existence.
What is left is pure,
Seven, Naturale;
The latest news,
The sweet video of the heart;
The way
I run my affairs.




Phyllis McEwen
copyright 1997
Originally published in the Deepwater Journal