Well, some you lay, and some you marry,
(As if womankind is some thing
To be sifted, sorted, and graded
Like so many eggs or lima beans)
But then one comes, smudging all those lines in her wake,
Scattering such easy dichotomies to the winds
Like so many dandelion seeds,
A woman seemingly composed of nothing save some essence,
Yet substantial, fecund, prolific,
And you find yourself wholly unmoored
By no more than a glimpse of her,
The mere imagining of a word wafted your way
A thing of inexplicable delight,
An ecstasy all but *******,
But such dreams serve nothing more tangible
Than as reminders of your utter unworthiness,
Your tainted admixture of rank brass and tuna-can metal,
And so you vow to re-cast yourself
Into something which is worthy of her,
Or at least something demi-desirable,
But such a remaking proves your unmaking,
A transformation not of as the humble cocoon,
But one that leaves you cartoonish, less than a man,
Braying and barking, not even worthy of the scorn
Of she for whom you forsook everything
And yet you would do so again and again,
The bewitching and utter annihilation of all you were
A grail unto itself, an immaculate radiance
Which the tips of you fingers, the brush of your lips
Would leave irreparably sullied.