The king from the council chamber Came, weary and sore of heart; He called to Iliff, the painter, And spoke to him thus apart: I'm sickened of the faces ignoble, Hypocrites, cowards, and knaves; I shall shrink in their shrunken measure, Chief slave in a realm of slaves.
I wanted to write "stay" on your sides, surround your bed with oceans of salt. I hope he folds you into a fox, loves you like a splintered arrow, brandishes the kill of your lips. May the bouquet of your hips wither. May the wolves forget your name.