It is some time since I have been
to what it was had once turned me backwards,
and made my head into
a cruel instrument.

It is simple
to confess. The done,
to walk away, walk away,
to come again.

But that form, I must answer,
is dead in me, completely,
and I will not allow it
to reappear --

Saith perversity, the willful,
the magnanimous cruelty,
which is in me
like a hill.

For friendship
make a chain that holds,
to be bound to
others, two by two,
a walk, a garland,
handed by hands
that cannot move
unless they hold.