O, sick muse!
How like plans made far advanced your zeal for me wilts like winter plants
By whatever wit your arm apple fastened
You have slipped my noose
Ring red raw the rope’s scarring passion
Abusing gifts like a voucher scam, now light must ration
Greedily shed my finite light, last of oil burning the short wicked little thick
Shimmer of shook foil the wrist flick of a pent-up Jesuit brings my mother to fits
Of tears
How verse breach years
How light the poet’s touch, as written on a peach hair;
The speech here wells tears, hovering the dauphin.
Alchemisland 
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