I love that in the final fevered surge,
Hectic and heartsick and hemorrhaging time,
He had the art, the nerve, the need, the urge
To cup one last fair couplet with a rhyme.
Not “zest,” so much. It hints of spice and tart.
The dash of z does nothing to conceal
A young man’s penchant to neglect the heart—
The convoluted kernel—for the peel.
“Unrest” suggests the sleeplessness that turns
A burning saint upon a brazier bed—
Where bright with brazen martyrdom he yearns
For hotter fires, not pillow to his head.
But “waist,” now—that’s a handhold when she tips
An overbrimming cupful to my lips.
