Surely you stay my certain own, you stay
My you. All honest, lofty as a cloud.
Surely I could come now and ding you high,
As mine as you ever were; should not be awed.
Surely you word would pop as insolent
As always: “Why, of course I love you, dear.”
Your gaze, surely, ungauzed as I could want.
Your touches, that never were careful, what they were.
Surely — But I am very off from that.
From surely. From indeed. From the decent arrow.
That was my  naiveté and my faith.
This morning men deliver wounds and death.
They will deliver and wounds tomorrow.
And I doubt. You. Or a violet.

–Love Note 1: Surely by Gwendolyn Brooks

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