Yes, let all dried pied things that hunt beneath
hueless meringues, that kink about and crawl
upon claws or stunted feet in the heath,
let them all come. Let the dead things that brawl
with the living come, too. The fell things cast
out who walk in the wild woods by their wild
lones. I want them all. Every downcast ghast;
woebegone eidolon; every reviled
wild child. My bed is big. My appetite
curious and my hunger fabulous.
Mortal hordes bore me. Nations of grundy
prigs priss want away. But passion, delight
bred, its fire stirred by Lilith and Eros,
is worth it. Here, serpentine lust, take me.