A cursory, where little curses grow,
is where misery is nursed, a cur
that worries she may starve; a wolf
feather-fine as leather in her fur--

A tuft of wool upon her brow; a snout
that sniffs the dryness of your throat
while wry eyes cut across your suit,
colder than a cat's, darker and less

Subtle; wise as any bitch's bastard
runt without name, not enough tit
to go round; a cunt of whimper, growl
and howl. This is how you tame her--

You bite back harder than her hunger.
You release her, making joy of doubt.