Sin

Where is trouble but for its name?
I feed a restless mind with bees;
The poverty of Whitman and Joyce!
But that is just jealousy, an angry habit,
born of fear, from carrying red roses
and blue violets in a hailstorm.

Becoming stripped of petals,
I seed the stations of sense.
For my eyes, gold desert sand and azure sky,
for my ears, three owls calling
in the ice of moonless winter.
Your skin is deep vanilla, moist musk,
a little lemon peel and pure paper.
I taste the salt of nightmare at daybreak,
and pause before sweets and coffee.

My body was a castle, fathom long and lonely.
I wrote letters to a peasant girl in town,
unseen by the king.
"I will run to you," I said.