Nissanah, my leopardess,

Wastes not wants.

She remakes me down-light

In green sutures.

She’s odalisque, my waters-run-deep;

Restored as she is, whole.


Yes, though we’ve skulked

Through the Valley of the Dolls

Like shadows, we fear no medieval:

Your Yiddish and silk stuff—they’re comforters.

You appoint my dead with oil;

My cup brims, a spillway.


Surfeit, your goodness,

Merci, shall bottle me

All the borne days

Of my violets.

We who’d do well as the

Lost of the Lord, as nectar.