Hoo-hoo! The rabble
blasted folk in multiplicity
hustled before you, blessed like the wit
with grains for each square of the chess floor.
Those acquainted with you cannot expect more.
Ruined as cosmonauts, all else afterwards is a bore.
Rarely the cataclysms of the parade
I am shyly dull in your room
gassed, and masked, by your perfume,
tinny and with my chintzy serenade debunked of volume.
What transport if I crowded your lips, if I were bade!
St-Lambert, circa 1983.