CUPIDITY

VALENTINE TWELVE

A dozen Februarys come and gone
Beneath a bright September-mocking sun,
A dozen times the smirking archer's drawn,
And in those dozen shots, he's missed on none.
No other piercing of my hapless heart,
No dark and jealous pet, no sultry toy,
No cauterizing wealth, no salve of art,
Can bleed from it my surging, stinging joy.
This earth, by definition, is mundane,
And doles out wonders sip by stingy sip,
And from this liquor, sobers us with pain—
But I live in my wonder's constant grip.
These February wounds I yearly feel
Apparently take thirteen months to heal.