My lives are like those of Plutarch
In other words, they are not my own
Brimming with white love
I bite them and watch them spoil
I spend special attention
On a twisted, acceptable life
An empty, burning love for others
Amongst the smell of kebabs
I will find an end to it
By lining up the animals
Multiples count each other out
In convenient, established forms
There is no further action to be taken
I'll appear in December, unconcerned
At how they gather about your coat-tails
Fluttering in a chalky way