(a canzone for Ann)
Chance it was that made Ann my friend & the end
of my love for Gregorian chants. I thought to pose
as an answer to her question about heaven’s distended
intention to make a singed fruit &, therefore, self. Wend
us a new way, we’d meant to say to the sky, but went
our ways before the prayer romanced us. Fanciful blend
we were, our puerile hands fondling what lends
virginity its antidote. We doted as noxious toxins
dote on the dead, fed our dreams inevitable sins,
the kind you lie about till you grow mean, start bending
your will to an order you’d reinvent this instant
if only it were yours. (It is yours, as this taunt’s
