You is a little daydream. The narrator can’t deny that she agrees
and society is delighted.
You were well-dressed and she particularly liked your tie.
But what has changed her mind?
Withdrawing from commonality had been so reassuring
in the hard chaos of language.
The narrator can’t deny that she agrees.
She consummated her love with a boy reluctant to knit
chaos in the grass or admit of primeval tranquility.
Estranging her ownmost breeches, polite was her world of
young pronouncement, her primitive literature.
The detachment was
a beautiful naked
wife isolated from its only tool.
(Ambiguity where we’d most appreciate a full description.)
Maybe death indeed should feel ashamed.
Instead, automatically it appears.
The narrator constructs anecdotally on other men,
she-talking her dream-virginity,
showing madness in an inkling as a bride,
for real: but monogamy.
This way to tradition. Near the end
desperation takes possession of the non-relational riverbed.
Hoping to be cleansed, it runs the rain in metaphors.