The heart is in the region of goodness, circling
slain virtue like a weeping carrion-bird
or common shitehawk. Nobody will mind
if just this once you give in to the loins'
impeccable sympathies. Even I would not
hold you to those choices, although neither
do I hurry to cut you loose. Perhaps I mean
niceness after all, although distinction
is not nice. Virtue could be propriety
and who would notice? What might help establish
the deceased's identity? Who are you, dear?
Nothing that will mend. With even gesture
commend to the small mercies of corrosion
the ill-behaved and dreamy heroine.
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