Troppo, that last one. Needing to unwind,
the lyric self slips into a side-alley
stellated with detritus. Childhood's end
is more childhood, although not necessarily.
Who among us is not some sort of child
still dragging along the undismantled trap
sprung in the early chapters? So befouled
you appear, as you are, downtrodden and hung-up
as healing commences with a floral tribute.
As if seduction were reversible -
as if you could back out the dark wood
the way you came, and not be answerable
to that dark wood's dark gods - so melodrama,
pitching herself at lenient amor.