The snowman has crumbled to a giant's glove-- Have I really made it to the green flare of Ordinary noons? Do you love me now? Me? Do you dream us into bed, young somehow, And naked? Then what happens? Do your dry Senses swing open like garden gates? I Can feel you quicken when I touch you by Accident, the way I have to. I feel new Repertoires come into play each time I do. Lift me up, breathe on my hair and carry me. I'm five years old, asking you to marry me.