Things that came back might also go away.
On Lust’s and Muse’s breasts I warm my hands
Both bitches drive me mad with their demands
For fear of freezing I perforce obey.
‘Yearn after this one – she will break your heart
yet sometimes look at you with atunned surprise.’
‘Write about zombies, though your painful eyes
need rest not nightmares.’ Love and poet’s art
are fever dreams, itches that drive me mad
and keep me from my sleep. And yet the grave
is my next restful night. Perhaps I’ll save
sleep for another day, until I’ve had
a few more years of burning. When the cold
seems more attractive, I’ll be truly old