For how long, Madonna?  Horoscopes will not foretell
the tide of possible tears, spring of certain sadness
nor pin the quickened bellow of the heart

Does this heart proclaim a fallacious lust?
Weigh the cabala of bodies, space of truth & trust?
Who feeds the children to the wolves?
Must we to ambush of silence & speech
fall prey & like idiots scurrying in the bestial  task
perform all possible silences, all possible thrusts.

Solitude, like love, creates its own circular rack.

Love forgives, & love forgets, sages say.
The snarl of tygers, or cultivation of amaranth
in the guts might execute both the mother & the son!
The poniard is the span of Gabriels festooned
with screaming light, arched between our journeys & stares
to exorcise all passions dry, stoke falling hearths

Yet blindly to rule of fireflies all subscribe:
We seek the hands that destroy all hearts!