Ill am I, paralyzed, whom God did hurt.
ill, suffering, a rare meal for gods
who sit, idle & adverse,
    watching & listening.

sweet ridicule, misery that ominous
spirits sense as meat, now, too simply,
Lesbia, that pixie, eats me for supper
    with her golden voice.

language speaks its torture, tenuous sub-articulations
inflame my madness, sonnets of supplicants
tinkle in the air, gem-like talking to
    light my darkness.

opium - Catullus: to be is to be molested
open & exultant in my numb genesis:
opium & rage pry & beat at
    my fading sight.