Here upon St. Lucy’s day you live in a
Thimble; surviving with alchemy. The
Elixir of death, the quintessence we
Fail to recognise—how often have
You wept to water the dust, how often?
I, a beast and an epitaph, a preference,
An antithesis; the mistress knows—and
So does her pillow. Some erotic rapture…
Where I stand outside myself.
Our hands are cemented together; our
Skeletons harmonised—funerals are
Do omit to come to mine;
A message mistress conveys, I follow
Unequivocally on St. Lucy’s day, as
You knit spirits.