I propose a toast . . .
To the purpose of fear
and the reason of fury.
To the gentle cough
before an upsurge of blood.
To the blind season.

I suggest to you this –
love is a necessary evil,
misery and ecstasy
in an almost-fatal pas de duex,
anger clamouring
in the galley of spite;
and that tears are for angels.

"Hate," said Hatred,
"Hate, hate, hate . . . "
Hate like a drawn knife.
Like a false-bottomed drawer.
Hate like a two-legged table,
all the emotions
worthy of their design.

From even the depths of sorrow
we aspire.