To Florence

Their Wisdom erupts like teeth in the night,

an orchard of white apples in my mouth,

adamant to take a bite. In come my

Pre-Raphaelites, who preview the next

product of my sweat and my blood and my

strife, at a party they listen and each

glance is a knife, but maybe they are all—

as I was once—right. But, I know tonight

she with the copper tress possesses some

benediction, the way her twinned aspect

meets with mine, our smiles are one condition;

she has the spark and I the volition.

The Welch Witch, she ran in, taking my stride

like the wind. Tempted, I delected, and

consented, to propitiate Florence.