*

This pen love comes too late
For alphabet figures that used to create
The father of these things innate;
A sensual voice
Tied off into dry tourniquets
Hovers over desperation
Watching drops move
Crawl sadly
In a cracked sink
Like some widows of ink
For blooded limbs
We let dabble
Our mad selves in Hymn,
-Approach novel faces;
We must draw the madness
once again.