A boy phones from a Frankish-
Speaking manor in Flanders, in the rain,
To tell me he has a shotgun
Muzzle to the inside
Of his Romance-speaking
Mouth. I tell him, take it from that ragged
North Sea lair and put it to
The milk and honey coffer
Of your chest and hold it silo-
Still and reddening there.
It isn’t speaking that you wanted to be quit
Of, but only just to stop the sadiron
Heavy flooding of the figure
Of your inconstant, northing heart.
Like a madrigal, a pastoral
In the pocket of my houndstooth vest,
You are the only beauty in this
Celestial torture I will call my own.
