poor man's Cummings

If on another's face your sweet hair lay,
I'll send him a little word, which is my lore:
Caress those dark strands of hair, and pray,
Pray they will linger there forevermore.

Then, I will lower my sullen face with a tear
And engulf all of my anxious hate,
And kill the birds that sing terribly with fear,
Kicking, cursing, wishing you'd suffer the same fate.

And if this should be, I say, if this should be:
You of my heart, run and hide from me.