To My Baudelaire
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Since loving you the moment we first met,
I have consented always to be bound
In misericords preventative of sound,
In brutal rooms beneath the oubliette,
With rotten rag, soiled gag, mock-leather threat.
Sour bandages, they mortify around
What heart I have, here in our underground,
At rest with this arousal to regret.
I am the tied, with you, the undertaken:
Here I, your undertaker, disinfectant
Gloves behind me, digging either wrist–
A riven cinch, blindfolded wench, expectant
As ninth-month Mary with her God-forsaken
Oblation – wait securely to be kissed.