Alchemisland

She’s different

Of my women least giving

Most gelid, least feeling

Most feline, least frigid

Most rigid, least deferent

Least diffident, most dissident

Least likely to grow, most in temper akin Autumn cold 

Yet something in her sweep and bends lures, I tend to go

Down sewer ladders and over fences

Though her myriad offences flensed me, wrought tenseness,

And left empty parts of me which ran over the lip

My fingers in harsh, harmonious grip trace her lips

Hidden bindings, letters never finding the right time; Love, the eclipse

All the glitterworld lit up behind her and hidden sky, I lie in a crypt

Gripped by an arresting triptych of romantic gifts.