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.