by Frank Bidart

    To all those driven berserk or humanized by love

    this is offered， for I need help

    deciphering my dream.

    When we love our lord is LOVE.

    When I recall that at the fourth hour

    of the night， watched by shining stars，

    LOVE at last became incarnate，

    the memory is horror.

    In his hands smiling LOVE held my burning

    heart， and in his arms， the body whose greeting

    pierces my soul， now wrapped in bloodred， sleeping.

    He made him wake. He ordered him to eat

    my heart. He ate my burning heart. He ate it

    submissively， as if afraid as LOVE wept.