The mind, an irremediable virgin
Dabbles me in these vagrancies and forces
Others to do their harshest, to deflower, to deprive
His absence of my patience. The rough hedge
Perfumes my fierce infamies, or of a sudden
A twice desolated solitude (that’s I)
At a thought breaks into broad wounds that remain,
Or at his touch in thought, open again.
Haunting the innocent green desert I’ll seek
His essence hidden in some thin tent, and cry
‘If I die, what will you do?’ but what I have wished
Be the wilderness I have and that he gave.