One of a score of poems written over the past year or so, this one about the girl of a friend. Forgive me if it takes a somewhat complaining tone.
You're woolen strychnine,
Toxic temptress, you don't even know it,
My heart beats quicker for you,
But I cannot show it;Not wanting, I throw it.
Crying, "I do not want this",
Dying, you fill my veins,
Backward, I rhyme,
Feel worse, for this crime
Not of passion, but of desire.
I quash my fire.
You hold the hand, My cheek twitches,
I look to my wrist, it itches,
And you are not there,
You're on his arm, smiling,
The face that adorns your pictures,
And I sit, at the side,
covered by the frame, I hide,