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.