The Improlific Appetite

the root of misogyny is can, the eye
that weeps most when best
pleased, the mouth thankless

thatch-roofed house of favor
in which you’ll never catch me hence
under the hill, the doors open in

the mat obscures a malkin
in the rough, in the trough
little shame-tongue, hiss-hiss at me

slipping is her instinct, element and cove
turbine, her undoing, undone
this is the thoroughfare of men

can’t see some doors for the forest
yes, a naired netherlands is better, yet
still a catherine wheel, a ride Hy eschews

makes more men, days I say never
another Hylas, too many
as is. amen. no man

men, I think, will disappear, they’ll go
a dirt road from the south, unpassable
but safe. trafficking in aftermath

this gnomon knows its time