Would the king himself ever bite on his tongue,
I think, facing the mirror, slavering blood
like a vampire, warm-red, where band-aid cannot
be applied, my own language: leaves me undone,

from my other me mute reproaches are flung
which must remain wordless and can’t stem the flood.
For a saviour now, urgently please, oh god
who, bleeding for me, rights the wrongs I have done

or blesses them. I want off. As for choosing:
I chose to keep mum, hold my tongue. Until death,
an intellectual. That’s great, such self-control

but it became better and redder, a whole
glass of wine, no, two or three, sunset blood red
and there was no more help for me save losing.