There is a derelict intention in love,
a chronic fabulation that never sits right.
One, two, or three might be the hour of regress.
Oh, there waits nothing like the distress
such plucked berries reprove;
they get under the skin, read Petrarch through Donne,
all dunable relations too much in hand.
Peter just has found a clever form. Might
his betrayal open sunsets to dawn,
spawn whatever conspiracy
two who have met on a bland
winter evening enflame? How artful
that appears, delinquent and delightful,
a thorough response to a lunacy.
Copyright © 2013 Jay Wright
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.