Creature,
Do not think me such a scoundrel
for loving you in vain; beauty
crowns the heart lovers animal
and humane all worship only
when they admit the literal
hunt they follow so unjustly
is the wor(l)d to blame. Criminal
muses confuse us, making weak
crowns the headlines bend to reveal
and torment; eating out purity
which they swallow down. What they’ll
hunt, they’ll follow so unjustly
with sodas, ices—victuals
seeming golden, but aren’t really—
crowns that dread lovers can’t handle
will soon rust unless somebody
watches them. That spiritual
hunt they follow so unjustly
crowns us without such ritual.
I’m yours,
truly.