To Circe

Voice, marvelous voice:
Come, come back to me!
Pelt me with fresher wild roses;
caress me with bluer anemones;
bruise me with thornier thistles;
embrace, imprison, smother me
with the merriest of buttercups and daisies!
Circe, come,
come back for a superlative moment,
and I'll be all your swine in one,
your lowest groveler, your funniest mireling!
Come back ere I run mad
inside this miserable, yearning, incomprehensible,
beauty-worshipping I of mine!
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