I reconcile myself to need. To wanting stinging, aptest, seigneurial, pugnacious, handsome as always cracking wise in my blood things, I think—by pulp supply of roots or tearing teeth, and/or ardor for what I vow against but carry always like my secret self, the bitten bride, to rat-consecrated, moon-wharf glum's glee in gotten-up peignoir dripping not daisies but rotten, long-aborning lickable black roses, the smaller the better to hide my privacy in: it's pretty good getting, that bite I flirt but never stick my neck out for. Yes, Your Woundship. Would a quibble count? Just one lick? Damn me. Then, back into the bidden, unblessed dark with you, my tiny prince of dirty comity. Sin simulacrum.
From American Fanatics, published by University of Pittsburgh Press. Copyright © 2011 by Dorothy Baressi. Used by permission of the publisher.