“Think Only This of Me”
I thought if I prayed hard enough about
You, you’d summon thoughts of me. “Pathetic!”
You are feeling. “Left me, then in a pout
He daydreams that, as if an ascetic
In desert meditation, he can
Employ telepathy to make us saints
Of friendship. He can bring us man to man
And overcome self-banishment’s constraints.”
Why, superstitionless, would I resort
To stupid, futile ploys, schizophrenic
As mediums supposing they can court
The dead? I was shell-shocked neuresthenic.
My quack-doctor’s Om to cure castration
Of love was chants made of desperation.