I reconcile myself to need.
To wanting stinging, aptest,
handsome as always cracking wise in my
blood things, I think—by pulp
supply of roots or tearing teeth, and/or ardor
for what I vow against but carry
always like my secret self,
the bitten bride,
to rat-consecrated, moon-wharf glum's
glee in gotten-up peignoir
dripping not daisies but rotten, long-aborning
lickable black roses, the smaller
the better to hide my privacy in: it's
pretty good getting, that bite I flirt
but never stick my neck out for.
Yes, Your Woundship.
Would a quibble count? Just one lick?
Damn me. Then,
back into the bidden, unblessed
dark with you, my tiny prince
of dirty comity.