Dido
If love were of the mind
reason would have killed it.
But love lands like a beetle  

that lays its eggs in skin,
smelts muscle, bores bone.   
Only thing noble in love  

is how it emulates sparrows  
flying off the spine.   
Cupid breathed on me  

and I was liquid glass,  
pulled-blue blown see-through.   
I gave A. everything:  

my golden city woven  
into purple cloaks,  
the chicest hunting parties,  

a tireless ear. But he  
was never taught to live  
on earth, just eat and sleep  

and shit here; never taught  
you can’t just take, take.  
The balls he had to speak  

to me in hell, to ease  
his guilt, ashes clinging  
even to my shadow:

the soot love leaves after  
it enters like air, feels
just like fire, then is.
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