I seethe in mulled shame at an assymetric love
That only sighs a mist of frames we bent.
Or maybe it was you, who scrawled that customary sunshine hue
And dotted like those many sent.

Your eager plea, emerged from hibernation,
Spoke taints of threading I’ve no use for now,
For my girl sleeps with phantoms teeming in their thousands.
Hope I foresee a crowd

In which you’ll see me, sprawled above the rest.
That lofty stranger, managed he, to whom I lent eternity at best,
Is foul like secrets are. Black tea-
A habit you can now address.