My mouth full of cotton and gin—
A shame, a sin—see how it runs;
Blind and in a flaming circle,
Binding the names of bitter men
In their Republic of Letters—
Big People you should know—‘Betters’.
And I, with lips of torn linen,
Crave, like a babe does, the blowing—
The breath—to chill my desert womb.
And why, with hips and porn givin’
Way, dies my tongue today? So soon,
High priests bake my bones to entomb.
Leaves wrought, once rotting, glow-and-go,
Yet aren’t gone. Littering the way,
I linger. And Legacy? Oh,
He’s yet to scald; I’ve kissed him, and
Will again, for a hundred days—
Fifteen minutes to brake o(u)r Fall.