Strange, what tenors reveal about the quiet.
Repeating the chuckle, dashed about wicker chairs,
A cut set deep and probable in its bloom-
Many pleasures, many official corporealities to buck.
Some of us were printed with decorum.
Theirs was the lion's share of assault by the blinding glimmer
Of the closeted hope that many a star borrowed
And confessed to in assizes.
We could have been better selves as limbs who loved like parrots do,
With habits I do not know.
But I'm sure they have their graces cobbled up for the relatives, because graces do show
What the love I dreamt pledged itself to,
Or smeared drunkenly on a floor.