The girl who I married
would not think me crazy,
if the verses I write
were buying her dresses.
She'd have me chained to the bedpost,
a slave of small print. Truncheon in hand, she'd rant ---
I'm waiting, write faster, you fag.
Where's the anthology you promised last year?"
Only poets appreciate what poets suffer
in gathering butterfly bouquets to present to our Goddess,
who through the ages gazes cold and cycloptic,
who pushes her faithful to drive off of bridges.
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