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.