115: Devouring you and reckoning, I love you best. A certain aspect of my fiction holds. (I could not love you more in the course of altering things.) I have no clear incentive to divert strong minds,
mindless myself of taking chances, since I’ve already changed through fierce blunt talk — Too much and too often I’ve raised a toast to loving you dearer and the certain madness of it, as my judgment’s grown desperately uncertain over the course of millions of accidents. Doubting the rest (and how angry rewrite gets afterward), beauty tanned by time makes you (and me) enflamed for pale-faced poets like Rene Ricard.

[Note: we follow the para-grammatical itinerary of the manic original, Sonnet 115.]