If I am not the allegory

Of you writing down to time

And telling the whistles of fineries

That one day won’t be mine,

Then what am I but a cudgel

To bludgeon you night and day.

Telling all my wine and wivery

Of how much we’ll have to say, one day?

Is it so that this is all a ruse

Sent forth from postmodern art;

To separate me from you

So I can see my cold empty heart?

Then write on and sail to better seas

Where the net is spread better and cast,

Wide for the stars in their own eyes that need

Kindness instead of your form and first class.

Witches are wellness when the moon is so taken

By hollows from the ground and naive science:

So hasten you well of those inks and their wells

Lest you be called to repeat your heart without violence.