Assassin

How do you

Seek me

In vintage

Cities?

When I fall

Apart in towns which

Are not on the

Maps?

I swallow lost atlases

And acacias.

How do

I consume the

Jar of your home-made

Sunshine?

You curtsy before

The dark gods under 

New moon.

But when have violent

Young lovers 

Thawed latent, ice-cold

Love?

You carry me

Like branches in

An angry

River.

Sharp undercurrents, foul

Algae; should 

You sell your soul

To buy bliss?

You carve my 

Name on 

White oak with your

Fingernails.

I walk, indifferent, into

The streets of

Vulgarity.

Those Scandinavian

Cottagers

Call me an anti-goddess,

An antidote to

Happiness.

I make love to strangers,

But I shriek like a

Graveyard wind when

The thundercloud

Of love

Chortles.

They call me their

Calamity.

But I guffaw 

Heartily— Am I not my 

Own assassin?