What have you done, love,
To this neat filing-cabinet
Of analytic mind?
I find such tangents
Intersecting, interlocking
Whirling and intense,
No sense they make, but
Shockingly irregular.
What is this thing? A lust,
Yet purely spiritual;
A dream, but wholly real
Awake or sleeping.
Now I feel ecstatic torment
In a strange ambiguous existence;
And my quiet heart, always so
Well-disciplined, ticks blatantly
Like some cheap clock.
This shock is more, much more
Than I can bear! I wear
The trauma on my mind
Like a crazy patch-work shroud
And laugh and cry aloud.