Lifted, the veil protests only a little, like it might when ruffled
by a wind. And her hands, her activity, her industry, and her
body become instantly more desirable.
There is something about my lifted arm, my stretch across
a room to the leisure of her warmth, the murmurs, and her
luminous eyes, making wishes.
Who would not want to hold her, who would not want to
lay in her dream, and experience the melting of candles,
while searching her vocabulary for answers.
But I am only an animal propelled by the dark urge of
monarchy, the implementing of tools, the howl of death
and its anguish, who am I to be satisfied with beauty?