The summer is already high up in the sky. I hide my sun behind the tree.
Tree eminently rhymes with John Donne’s flea, a tiny subject of the lover’s contemplation. The subject is not physical about the lover whose unconsenting blood mingles with his in a flea. Just a little and beyond the physical.
The flea is a conjugal bed , a sacred cloister for union of two souls. The bodies do not figure anywhere except for the blood they supply.
You entreat not to kill three in a flea
It is sacred room this tiny flea’s body
To consummate union , you and she.
It is not a sinful union inside the flea
Maiden’s loss is negligible in body,
Metaphysical may however be silly.
My dog, the one who had followed my pantleg some days ago is not seen today. It must be busy with its fleas.