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.