how I wish you mad. that some cruel ob-
session might drive you from what should be
tender between a man and a woman, or
a man and a man, or a woman and her birds
black. but you are good as a cookie. in-
dulgence is what I am asking, some too-thick
oversweetness to ache us. an exotic morsel
to move a spoilt boy into betrayal’s
sledge, antithetical, pointless as snow-
queen androgyny. Powdery cloy, a ploy, a sleigh
for a heart (in lieu of a heart — a rosebud) don’t
come back with venison.
on stormy days I wish
you struck with reanimation–seekily piecing
a christform but with circuits moved by
lightning and a fondness for what is French
and destitute. I could be such a monster. alas
your only deformity is how far from abandon
you plod with love. it is by that slow-avenging
stability I’ll be onefistedly interred.
and your true mistress–she shall orchestrate
the unheroining of me, the white-dusting. By
keeping to me and me sane, you, dear s., have assured
but ruination in this most unbeloved and coldest
country for my kind–comfort. 

 

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