It’s very cold in the poem. All I have is the rhythm of my legs—spondaic—with an italic of gimp. And some mud. God might
I’m a mull (flimsy muslin that joins the rigid spine and the mawkish body). I’m a moll (Mary’s name debased, see also gangster’s girlfriend,
—For Kris Sealey and Jerome Clarke I will be the first to admit it doesn’t matter. No one will die for your sins,
I drove by your house and felt nothing but dreamed of you speaking in Cyrillic, the Ukrainian I forget you were. But the war,