MY GIRLFRIEND HAS AN ANGEL ON EACH SHOULDER

My girlfriend has an angel on each shoulder;
my girlfriend has an angel on each shoulder.
So there is no demon crouched at her ear;
so there is no demon crouched at her ear.
Her ear, there, on my shoulder, has no crouched
demon, so girlfriend is an angel at each.

I am foolish then to ask, Why is she good;
I am foolish then to ask, Why is she good
and I am less so? Heaven doubled her goodness;
and I am less so. Heaven doubled her goodness.
Then so I is doubled foolish, and ask: Why
am I her heaven? Am less good to she goodness.

No answer is comes. She remains herself;
no answer is comes. She remains herself
and I, myself, and the rain falls;
and I, myself, and the rain falls.
Myself and herself, she and I, comes,
falls. Answer? Is no. The rain remains.

Myself, I am foolish. And herself, girlfriend is an angel.
And I, less goodness comes.
So why falls she crouched, doubled at the rain?
I ask her, “Has each so no then to good?”
Her ear remains on my demon shoulder.
She is and heaven is. There am no answer.

GROWTH

I’ve said my piece, but still my mouth is going,
and so my words dry up the conversation.
Like pleasant dandelions, they keep growing,
and turn to weeds through heedless propagation.
You'd think I'd be content to hold my tongue
and lose myself in flaxen ecstasy,
but still these trifling flowers spread among
the tall reeds of her steady empathy.
What forces me to spin my flowery story,
and not let love’s stout stems be all the law?
I’m grasping twigs of loud romantic glory;
I should be dropping roots of quiet awe.
For if I’d stop a moment, I might hear
her, whispering sweet silence in my ear.