With the sceptre of my eyes I govern the horizon.
I open my eyes,
I close my eyes,
I govern nothing but my own thought
and that is one battle I will eventually lose.
Ιn my apartment dance the winds and the beaufort,
at the table I sit gambling with the Virgin Mary
grows a church full of poetry.
Something feral’s at the door.
The mystery is not my employer.
Rearranging the light on the walls
I’m always about to do something dangerous,
your voice composes the music in my dreams,
outside it snows a whitewashed snow,
all hell smiles from the bottom of the cup.
Pass me more coffee
and let me tell you about love—
gamebred dogs are no pets.
Game is the dog that won’t quit fighting,
the dog that will die in the ring,
the dog that will fight with two legs broken.
Note: Last three sentences I stole and touched into proper rhythm from Wikipedia’s article about game dogs.