[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.

Source: frank: sonnets (Graywolf Press, www.graywolfpress.org)