M.M.X.I., bountiful year.
“Oh, I’ll give you everything.”
We pierced—pierced!—the celestial sphere.
Fifty-two poems, prolific.
“Your heart, it has been emptying.”
We unearthed the hieroglyphic.
What ever inspired your new art?
“Confess it until you are free.”
Smut never required a head start.
When will you exhibit the stuff?
“Expression is now what it seems.”
Will you continue soon enough?