Plethora

You’re right about the praise I dish your way
jail’s the comeuppance of a liar poet

My only want is your content and if I hold
another want may I never be granted it

Each full moon is born of a crescent
yet what’s a full moon got

Vitiligo
and the morning sees me with eyes of dew

a fever that breaks out
on your integument

On your skin exanthem
is a pasture of anemones

Because you’re one of them
I love my enemies