as a poet I am to court depression,

as a poet I am to court depression,
not with powdered wig and gavel on
charges of disorderly conduct unbecoming
a community pillar, exemplar, no, court,
not with love or score in clay footing
with racket sport but as in hoop skirts
flirt and perchance ask her mother muse
if we may perhaps, dance, gloved, find
our way though the pale tight steps,
sense her glance, catch the lowered lash
the cats of ninetails closing over her eye
lowering her face to mine, stiking us both
milky blind. She is immortal but I would die
of grief if she did or didn’t take me. What
have I to lose? Behold me, her suitor,
I would immortalize the goddess in mere
font, pouring, read and soaking into all
who splash themselves with the sweated ruby beads
in honor of her sparkling tears, running deep
riverbed troughs worn into her anorexic cheeks
as she ignores my beseeched shaking hand
for another dance, and I pine to glorify us both.

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