TALL DIANA OF THE FINE LINES, 

PICANTE, BITTERSWEET CHILD OF FURY, 

FRENZY WORKS NO WONDERS! 

THESE SWEET SHIVERS, LITTLE LUSTS 

ARE MEDICINES TO MAKE US WISH THE MADNESS; 

CIRCUMSTANCES THAT COULD HAVE MADE US LOVERS 

SMASHED INSTEAD THE MIRACLE ABORNING. 

 

FELINE BEAUTY, FAWNING, PREYING, 

WE CANNOT BRING TIME TO HEEL. 

IF YEARS WERE CLAY, THEN WOULD I SHAPE THEM 

INTO A FAIRIED FANCYLAND, 

A GREEN AND YELLOW SILKY JUNGLE, 

WHERE LIMBS WOULD WAIT YOUR FINE LONG BODY, 

AND LITTLE VICTIMS, BLINDED, STUMBLING,  

WOULD HESITATE AND WAIT YOUR HUNGER, 

THEN WOULD YOU BRING ME FINES AND SWEETMEATS 

BITTER RINDS FROM MELONS ROLLING 

SUNLIGHT STARVED BENEATH THE SHADOW, 

QUINCES FROM THE DISASTERED VILLAGE, 

TINY TRUSSED-UP CORPSES, SCREAMING, 

STEAMING HOT FROM THE JUNGLE OF MURDER! 

FIRST THE PAWS, 

THEN, THE CLAWS.