I have tied—firmly—my girl to
Stumps of iron, with
Rope of stone.
I keep her at home, feeding
My last lover
Belched me songs of fidelity.
We raised the child of our gut in a
Fog of streets—rainy days, garter belts, cigarette smoke,
The mother left me for my brother,
I went on to eat our produce, our lilac from dead loins,