Madame Sans-Cul

The fragrance of her ancient home invades my nose
And fills my nostrils with an overarching need
To scan all my horizons for a double, unique meed.
In the end I consumed her like Pound’s rose.

Her flat-bottomed nakedness appalled me not at all.
No, no, it sank into my mind, a carapace
Of what was sought (or seeking, fills my face
With rather more than something simply lyrical).

What might expressed as simply leaden dread,
Or failing that, the tortures of the damned
Expressed as something calling out for bread,

Along a river less than fitly dammed
That stops the mind (so used to being fed),
Exhibits here a want we had thought dam’d?