You surround me, seraph, a perfect pining prayer
And through I pronounce you, a binding and spinning snare —
For the women from the dark age snipped the flowers from their feet,
Trading their skulls for their heart in a lunar rose retreat.
I am mellow in the morning, but Beloved, I never stay.
The Lord stained my eyes — a sacred blue: narcissism / limerence / decay.
You wrote a letter to Christ and pleaded for glamour,
yet I breathed for Salvation and reconstructed my rules of grammar.
My velvet rage purged my sorrows; made me your man —
In the winter, I perished, and still my woman never can.