To Fanny Hawkins (ca 1855 – 1872)

I rushed and beat Demons to the pool
dusking, ready to shield you from the curse.
Let’s run, I begged, till the shadows disperse.
Gloriously clad, unforeseen, wishful

dreaming in the dead of a night cruel.
Uninvited, bearing blueprints and a thirst
for reunited state and golden verse
to hail the devils asking for your mule

and all you could ever have been, now rushing.
There is no deed good to turn the old law.
Your resolve crushed my complaisant flaw,
absolved the knight in the armor lacking.

In the bushes burning, deaf i cower
lest the whip-poor-wills might herald louder.