i thought (about her) that

 i thought (about her) that 

i thought (about her) that

i could not write like that

even if i she gave me an extra word or two

even if i placed them thus

i thought

how does she weave those golden threads

when they are some un-shrivelled  

in the whole with its darned holes

how does the life blood of a poem

run down from an ever-filling pen

surely behind some bloody eyelid

there is a smile of welcome

when a thought comes home again

i thought

then i could write like that