Ah! I know only too well how
black my heart is
how at home I am with snails
and dingleberries and
other dark things. Be sure that
no god turns me
inside out like a supple glove or
nibbles my identity.
I am hopelessly happily conceited
in all inventions and
divertissements. I hardly even notice
hurricanes any more
for the glamor of suspension bridges
alleys and pianolas—
I claim them all for my insufferable
genius my demon my dish
and when I’m cornered at the final
minute by cries “you’ve
murdered angels with toys” I’ll go down
grinning into clever flames.