Monday, March 14, 2016


I would take a hooded hobgoblin
For any meal at all. Devils hide
In every word, constellated imps

Of meaning, teasing, tempting, hinting
And generally worming around so
That the dead thing seems to writhe with life.

This memoir will mean nothing to me
Unless I can make you feel how close
I was to the end you'd dreamed for me.

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