“15. The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times” in “Musing”
15.
The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times
Wind down like theories built on algebra
And Hymen sleeps in mythology
Tired, perhaps oblivious, to graphs and curves
Charting the decline of the bed strewn with flowers
The wedding torches have gone smoky
And the vexation of the spirit and flesh
Divorces hand and eye. Hormones rage
Against the dying light, there but unnamed
To our ancestors. A maze of rules governs
The ungovernable, but we have
Our names still. Some words are knives.
She would burn my words with her breath
Her truth lying where it most protests.
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