Envenomed in vain,
     pretend enemies
     feign an end to sting
     after sting when they
     understand nothing

and only complain,
     the way scorpion
     underhand summons
     from within aching
     memory waking

in each a faint king
     making of such things
     a moment envy
     extends beyond pale
     reason, so in our

dealing, this détente
     really is nothing
     but reasons undone,
     willful forgetting
     someone stung his own

crown, poisoned its ring
     with a sound instead
     of song, ran colour
     when a tear or prayer
     jaundiced with remorse

might have better stood
     our fumbling course, for
     each have we succumbed
     in craving these ones,
     flaming our own blood’s!