Tags
besmirch, hoar frost, misshapen passion, no eden for me, poem, Poetry, sonnet, vice
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.