"Popes of the Ghetto" (Pessoa, VII.)

In the burning shadows where my heart dwells grieve thee
hatching midnight tentacles, relic thought
in overfishing cataract who believe thee
not. A suburb crag or two, the desire to not
finish, pallid moths instead of stars:
i seldom quaff as such. Panic survived
even its regimentation in fragrant bars
of Betelgeuse. The Portuguese believed
in ground fog. Hull of maroon contains the world;
bury the chains, your serfdom coif born covering
a Klingon Wicca lament, sunken otherworld.
No clinic gawk, silken with discovering,
now. One day a dearth of borders may
growl, too, past this totems of dismay.


Sock it to Me.


Queen of the Dalits.