It may seem peculiar indeed To have not paid homage To this Nightguard of Poetry But claim me for society's victim For upon gazing at her ether-omniscient-- White curves encase the infertile desert As, if you'll recall, her ancient patroness Her consorts are of far greater interest (A weak word hiding unspoken depth) Unique in their millions And, I find, quite indescribable Except appropriate to represent that mystery (It resides among the ugly, fragrant shelves) Unworded but for breezes and shadows and eternity-swirls Her mysteries were long drained from that pale, gaping face And of no great interest. And somehow I am writing.