It could be that nothing is sacred to me,
or it could be that I have seen enough of altars and alder groves.
A thyrsus is only a cock, after all
and a holy virgin only a girl who won’t call.
Let’s go ragged as old coats tattered by a wind
whose playfulness makes love to the idea of apocalypse.
Carry on, carry on, I feel it in the popping gears of my heart
that rattletrap old box of bones.
Some comeuppance it was, howled loud as a rabbit’s hop
and half as deadly, some great vindication—
all your books lost at sea but the painting I had given her
for her birthday still hanging around.
She had wanted it. Love will leave you it said without prelude,
how macabre, and she wanted it.