Sonnet 94:

If I had the foreground I’d subside in attrition as it were,
heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
thinking of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing our very own subjectivities
that we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, my husband...

May I live and die if fairest turns sourest ever
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.