that, within my brain,
my soft little breast,
behind my deflections,
and all the rest,
she found me unknowable,
mad, melancholy and inexplicable.
the lazy way I've dressed?
or the time I've spent lounging as a lady may do
of an afternoon in my machine gun nest?
Why now, why this way?
Why when my hair is not looking its best?
Are there any other serpents caught in the lace
that you'd like to get off my chest?
To me, this seems unfair,
this demand of me to share
She said, you are a broken bird
whose beak is too silent and dark
to say the words that speak my mind
or ever hold my heart.