blindly fumble
for the buttons of her mouth
to rip open speech
and wow the waiting crowds
but the fingers are not working
they are shards of glass
stolen from cathedrals
where better men have passed
so she is dumber still
and naked,
more naked than the cold dark space
between my yearning and her perfect mourning waist
and I am hunger
and wretched bile
baying as the fires are lit
around my own denial
burn the witch
burn the witch
and let her flesh unfold
that I may never see her clothed again
or ever feel such cold.