I'll never wake to Sappho's face.
-traces of her- feelings for her's.
scent of a flower out of bloom.
Time is a terrible imposition
-an attrition we passionately forget-
until finally we're redacted.
Nor will I hear Sappho's lovely fragments
It -torments- me that the original Greek
may speak to some but is for me dumb.
-asure to die in July-
-ttracted over a distance-
I-redacted-
