Lie on a bed of spikes,
feel it, crucified.
At last, peace,
the nails through my hands,
my legs bare to the thigh -
I was over.
Frozen, looking at those frigid hands -
they were not bleeding.
Lay on the floor by the fire,
he kind of liked me,
I learn my lesson,
I was the dead quiet crescent court.
He beckoned,
I came - breaking, hearing the dry crunch,
dead quiet.
Snow in my shoes,
I felt nothing.
I heard the clocks striking,
deathly dreaming people went somehow to bed.
I slept six hours,
weary and waiting to recover.
They will be laughing at me,
hardly white - though they are men.
I shall be sober for so long.
Why won’t I see him again?
I won’t.
I dream of banging and crashing in a high wind -
I want to know him sober.
I want to write to him -
discipline and blaze.
I shall get some sleep and do so.