Take Ides of March, my foe,
In revelry and feast above all,
Let the slaying for the dusk.
Never mind the tremor of the sigh,
I belong still to the quiet hands
Of some blind root that keeps
Love inside cork-lined mornings.
I shall peel off layers of affectation
Before the blade pierces the core
And the pleasing nature of absent
Things, fills the contemplating eye.