In one great wave of lust

(I pronounce it "passion"),

I took all blessing and formed a curse.

How sanctimonious these passions,

my delusions of correction, are.

Are they not like dust?

Are they not a violent and sickening dust?

Yet, I pursue them with fixed avidity.

Shelf upon shelf,

yard upon yard,

binding upon binding.

Silence.

Nothing more horrible have I enjoyed.

Savages treading through the rough,

unaware of what we long.

Objectless longing.

Such passion leads to—

silence.