We die,
Weling Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
Strao our outstretched necks,
Stranglers, who her care nor
care to know that
DEATH IS INTERNAL.
We pray,
Sav sweet the teethed lies,
Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
Gods, who her know nor
wish to know that
HELL IS INTERNAL.
We love,
Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,
Iing our mouths in tongued kisses,
Kisses that her touor
care to touch if
LOVE IS INTERNAL.