Through the window Moon howls loveliness
and with this fire might we recount our words?
Thy dearest mine remove me from my dress,
and lift my arms towards airy songs of birds.

I follow your perfume from room to room,
the mist of your breath on the mirror�s glass.
You leave, I come � I give to you this plume,
a peacock�s feather laid across your ass.

My poet canst thou use me with your heart?
My dearest willst thou ever use me more?
Suck in your chest and play the Bonaparte
beyond all madness � Edgar Poe�s Lenore!

I love you, Lizzie, let me part your rose.
I�ll love you, Robert, in my underclothes.

                                 ***