On bended nights, the resolution drums

Succumb, the eyelids fade and love's unmade

the bed that once you left: so red, all thumbs,

I might fumble the cap or wrap or strap or blade

of faintly rosy Marmelade (Oh yes,

I am Fructified, Crucified, Ossified, Flossified,

                                                                                until

Demeroled, Folderoled, Willeroled, Nilleroled,

                                                                                unless

Angels appearing to write in my hearing my Will

of the Wisp on a Stilly Nacht like this because

we often pause, toot sweet the falling reign,

enthralled at last, exhilarating flaws,

Devoutest wishes of the Saint of Pain

and Dreaming; As often I dream of the Consummate You,

Irresolving the thaw of the Melancholy Dew.