At the hour of desiring no longer to be,
at the hour of desiring most savage,
when the body of the sparrow is ravaged
in a satin abundance of trees;
at the hour of breach and affray –
because love is consigned to disgrace –
violence, this truncheon, lays waste
to the sweetness of yesterday;
at the waiting hour
of the extremity that flowers
in love’s spasmodic movements,
scarlet plumage of skin,
prey to linens wherein
the simulacrum, enlarged by love, wounds it,
when, turbid, pleasure burns bright
with the acrid aftertaste of night.