Insecticide #4

Immobile marble;
dropping from the Sears.

Cast in glass, my heart.

It shouldn’t be this way,
immovable transgression;
serpentine locks of blue green
her hair in tangles, like my thoughts;

Black is the color of my love.

My impenetrable woman,
of whom it hath been confessed;
sees not, nor hears.
Only time, that ticking
thing inside her womb,
could cause me subtler harm than this.

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