Men.

Composure straps the grandeur

And weight of castles

To his twisted back, 

Makes bodies freer than

Unformed poetry, and calls 

The angry silence in to rule

As though it were the only 

True font of dignity!

This is the curse of

Many a man to woman - 

That fruit should be edible

Rather than ripe, speckled or sweet.

The aging coins of joyful earth;

Its leafy veins

Are swept beneath the black

Of wide river stones, 

And that terrible creature 

Preens, aware and drowning, 

Before the varnished eyes

Of swooning pond skaters.

He won't show himself to cave, 

To sweat for her unshelled 

In the oily pink of a barefoot dance - 

Nor hum his hymn unheard 

Before dawn's ceremony

Of bleeding colour.