Plethora

You’re right about the praise I dish your way

jail’s the comeuppance of a liar poet

My only want is your content and if I hold

another want may I never be granted it

Each full moon is born of a crescent

yet what’s a full moon got

Vitiligo

and the morning sees me with eyes of dew

a fever that breaks out

on your integument

On your skin exanthem

is a pasture of anemones

Because you’re one of them

I love my enemies