[It is abominable, unquenchable by touch]

It is abominable, unquenchable by touch, closer
to the sublime than sentimental, more animal
than hominid, I’ve seen it in the eyes of birds
weaving on a stem of ragweed, voracious,
singular, there is no one like me, Dickinson in
her narrow bed, her cold clenched hands, her
penmanship unreadable, even following a recipe
for black cake, her black cake came out strange,
lusher than the template, and every freak I ever
met had that same look in their eyes, armless,
threading a needle with their lips and teeth,
legless, rounding a corner on their cerulean cart,
monarchic, imperious, wild, sad, and like every
virgin queen, the need for love revolting and grand.