I reconcile myself to need.

To wanting stinging, aptest,

seigneurial, pugnacious,

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.

Sin simulacrum.