I rise and shine; you shine to dim
I try not to let it get to me

but in my austere revelries, I tend to contemplate
why you discontent me so

the contours of this arrangement force estrangement, not allure;
I thought they would; they don't

I won't pretend I'm sure of anything, never was and never presume to be
I'm a plough in a field unseeded, a seed in a pot unweeded

the butterflies you're apt to chase bear plastic faces
and the doll, she told me as much, but I didn't want to hear.

of my riders, the white is prone to lies, the red is long dead,
and though the black attempts to play, I turn him astray because

not even he knows the way, and nowhere can I find what I want:
a steady hunt, clever tricks, the skulls with their eyes glowing thick,

a crooked intellect in its chicken-leg hut, bearing down quick,
someone like that, with the tenacity of an old hag

in a fowl-footed house whom even my mirror lakes and
bristle teeth forests won't deter . . . assured; unmoored; rated mature

that's what I want, disembodied impetuosity, blood-boiled boldness,
witch-murder-blind obsession. Where's my Baba Yaga?