I must be careful. I am too in touch

with the wild. The wild in me. There are fish

 

that dream under the black ice. I would clutch

them, suck on their spines, for I am ghoulish

 

when it comes to design. I was designed

for ill. Ill use. Ill skill. My misshapen

 

passions, after a fashion — thick as rind,

hard as crust — follow all that is heathen:

 

cast out. No Eden for me. Hoar frost — hot,

hairy, bad — runs wild in me. I would taint

 

you. Besmirch your faith the way that the ice

lulls the fish to sleep. To leave you distraught;

 

leave you wanting. I shall betray your faint

faith in love. Love is no virtue. It’s vice.