2/Gin & Tonic

Your grief—trapped unicorn in this grove of thistles
& bitter fruits—batters the imperial criminal
dragging about this crypt of mirrors & herbal rub:
Hear ye!  I am indivisible, one, & my woman,
most solitary, I do not gift with common seals of love,
shall be most loyal, most steadfast… As if in wheezing
his crimes—talmud of vice—were parables of wings

O But the castle exfoliates at the skill of wordsmiths—
barbarians to the core—gripping Ra’s talisman

Always the heart, Madonna, seeks its own secret blasts,
rooting into alien caves of hurt, Solomons on the side—
& fingers, gnarled like your passion, crawl about
the maze of magical speech that will strike no angel,
heal the wounds that whip our heart to exorcise:
Too late in the day now; damn puzzles & confessionals!

O But always the flow of rivers spits out words Minotaurs
that as rule shall ravage doors of heart, sacral psalms

& yours, Madonna—no matter what rain of roses & scorpions
what codes of love & lust, twist of angels & escutcheons—
shall always be the sadness of centuries, the crown.

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