Cynthia.  First, your misery.  I see the pit in your eyes
   
   and we don't hold each other after love.

To me this constant deceit looms fast
   
   and it is impossible (dead) to press it:  I love your feet.

Do kiss me and do quit casting all these
   
   improbable women at me, I don't want your consolation.

And I am totally furious that there's no deficit this year.
   
   I know you have God but I have adultery.

Milanion knew the fugue would end and told the workers
   
   to say that you and I are aunts conducting a tour of the silo.

Now, I'm in no Parthenonian mood to make amends for your aunt's errors.
   
   I bat and she always suits me up, fair as video.

She and I are jai alai percussionists.  You'll hear the ramifications.
   
   Arcadia is sow city where dopey buses run the gamut.

Scram you poor, crazy, domestic woman,
   
   love in tandem precedes you and is a valiant benefactor.

In me, love is always late, not that you understand art.

   And now that you mention it I note that in a previous life I was angry

at you.  We quibbled about duct tape and lunar fallacies

   and worked in sacred, magic monasteries

in a dumb age dominated by men who converted us

   and, face it pal, they were going to eat me or mince me.

I think some of the credit goes to your side and almost all 

   to the Cytae posse who belted out song after song.

And you who never lapses into "Once In Love With Amy," I love you.  

   Why this is right I can't say.  Your breasts exhilarate

for breasts and for rum your pate, myrrh and ignorance.

   I have liberty in the sit mode but why did you light and locate my anger?

We're furtive for radical men and furtive for underwear.

   I won't write why your cat isn't female

or why you bus to see your facile god's annual aura.

   Your parents always love to see us in a tutu.

To me you are Venus, especially at night when we exercise our love.

   And no one you accuse has a temper to fit my love.

In hock, no money.  You and I are bad off, so when we have more

   money to cure our net assets will mutate into crazy love.

But if the money is late it will be adieu to you,

   you who wants lots of references, you are...Bah!  Oh, my money!

To poem, Second

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