Sestina 3

I'm thinking of the times that we'd conspire
As though identical pages we read
Though unity and harmony were dead
No lower motives only pure desire
The smallest distance was greatest measure,
Which closed, geometric'lly brought pleasure

Poet quantifying his pleasure
With what petty madness I will conspire
Conceit of me to think I could measure
That, the sums of which only God has read
And calibrated. Heated hearts desire
In varying quantities; only dead

Hearts remain constant. That to other dead
Hearts, whose only extravagant pleasure
Is their constancy in lack of desire.
My heart is fickle. With it I conspire
And coordinate, so it will be read
As uniform and fixed in its measure

Of loyalty, and this to the measure
Of its capacity much like the dead
Who share that trait it seems. And you who read
Dusty codices of purple pleasure
And thought that with the past you did conspire
With spiritual calculus desire

Is calculated, while mortals desire
A simpler, understandable measure
So that's why I with poetry conspire
To usurp from the purview of the dead
Arithmetic fixity of pleasure
And predictability that's read

In heartbeats, breaths, and strands of your rust-red
Hair, which ev'ry follicle I desire.
I'll exponentially increase pleasure
For both our hearts with expanding measure
Sacred dynamic, envy of the dead,
Towards which they impotently conspire.

Conspire with me attaining God's desire
With meters red-lined beyond their measure
And rendered dead by our human pleasure.