The wrong [I once did]

[The wrong] I once did was discuss horrid past, 

Instead of

Imagine differing future.

No woman I met


Could ready her soul enough 

To love me tight 

As I would love her this right.

But a future encounter,

A nurtured encounter,

A cultured intelligence,

A brain of the most extraordinary

Sanity and brevity,

Of downright excitabilities 

And overwhelming sexualities:

These are things I yet have 

To [me]et;

These are things I yet have 

To tre[at].

And so when I sing the [t]races of love,

Empalmed wild

And highly riled and rued, and then [t]rued too,

If I say this all mildly ’bout

What I really imagine, but

Set in future not past 

In any way at all,

I will have the utter freedom

To w[rite] my desires

No longer ’bout those women who occupied 

That passed,

But rather so wonderful

Those I wish to represent my last.

And so when I now author tales

That all rail ’bout love,

The railing and tailing of such gorgeous grand fur[red] coat

Will talk all ’bout the women I still have not agreeable met:

No longer remitting myself to a derisory of misery

But inviting my new life to 







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