My claim, my chime, I am a fiction, fixedand ever mindful, a tome so restlessmy rations breed a burn, my chapters bestimbibed with stout. I, however, eat heartilyfrom the apple in your neck and amemasculate, immured, today the ploughman,tomorrow the priest, prostrateabove passion’s vault of probable bones.You’re lit by my rashness, a torchsubject to my frost, which feathersand leaves its mark on you,roseate and wild. Such nightspale at my calamitous mornings,to which our tired harp strums refute, refute.—A. B. Epstein, “Love, Nomad”Art Credit Arkhip Kuindzhi, Moonlit Night on the Dniepr

My claim, my chime, I am a fiction, fixed
and ever mindful, a tome so restless

my rations breed a burn, my chapters best
imbibed with stout. I, however, eat heartily

from the apple in your neck and am
emasculate, immured, today the ploughman,

tomorrow the priest, prostrate
above passion’s vault of probable bones.

You’re lit by my rashness, a torch
subject to my frost, which feathers

and leaves its mark on you,
roseate and wild. Such nights

pale at my calamitous mornings,
to which our tired harp strums refute, refute.

A. B. Epstein, “Love, Nomad”
Art Credit Arkhip Kuindzhi, Moonlit Night on the Dniepr

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