Against Conceit

Don't say Sir Pigeon in his cobalt bonnet.

Don't find among your notes

jottings on duvets and blizzards and the page   

unwalked across               black missives of girlhood

must be sent off and do not claim the furnace   

of the universe is powered by human screams.

When the dark turns dark

or when the bullet lifts a scalp,

it is enough to know the lover feels the slap

that the world can hear the sharp shout   

               which wakes the cat

her claws one inch from the rabbit's bobbing scut.