Accuse the planets if you must, wail the wile of a star’s lifetime
a man in you planned this hour which and caterwaul, not because
of the lone that you own to, but of the dying gall in your palled lips.
And the man in you is lost too.
use a catafalque and the grumble and gambol of a past, past using
this is your bedding, your wed, your our.
The black love in you shall not desist.