Abishag

She's weeping again (in the glade) Scarfed in strawberries And fondling the organ Of your little Nephilim Do not ask why she murders you The laudanum is a past Where the solitariness Breaks Where the gardens Fail Where you are breathing The gut of cloud It was merely the declining glade That kept us untorn And as the moonlight Heaved over us, a noise of perfect amber You pinched the anise from its stem And we wrote each other painlessly In the cold mirror of opium Sleeping inside the conspiracy My brother, you could have had her But you hardly crept out From your dreaming position I almost trembled But she whispered infinity I cannot dispute infinity