Above — my roof, her floor — apart,
My interest of mind resides,
Not the hottest pangs of my desire
Nor the tempting nature of the flesh.
An intercourse resembling,
Discourses and analytics,
The literature that is mine love,
Of ebon and the ghastly gothic.
In truth, a courtship of the double,
The reality of the lower—
Defines itself elusively,
Through the concrete of poetics.
Not mine window that does face the world,
Instead a sub earthen dungeon hut,
Existing still—through the gleam above
What is beauty—without disgust.