It's not for the world to understand a poet,
but a poet must understand his world.

I lie here, under thick blankets,
beside a girl who was a virgin just hours before.
Scared to reach for the single glass of wine
on the bed-side table,
in fear I might drop it,
and I might break down if I saw it shatter.
Such a beautiful glass,
filled with a poison it took over twelve years to make.
Old Verdelho Madeira is sweet on the tongue
and I am shaking.
The ghost of you lingers in every idle gesture.

The new whore rouses in her sleep,
and I am burdened.