All talk of you
Reduces me to
To little more
Than theory.
A fawned mortal,
An acolyte,
A follower
Of perfect type.
But more than this,
Inside my skin,
I’m honour bound
To oxygen,
And from its brew
Is sifted out
The filaments
Of hereabouts
To swill and wash
My avenues,
And junk the last
Of me for you,
And in my files
The fluff contained
Is measured out
In tight quatrains.
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