Withnail (The Dying Season)

You came to me in a dream
In the dying season
Along with the snow
And the unrelieved nakedness of everything

Unhealthy and conspiratorial
You wanted mothering
Or some other form of pure love
Not tainted by your elegant corruption

And you didn't understand
That I needed deflowering
Required the perversion
That you in your sickness could offer of yourself

We draped our paper-thin selves
About one another
Writhing in a tapestry
Of frustration and unfulfilled silent desire

When next we came together
We were introduced by friends
You smiled, pretending first knowledge
And I offered my hand to your conspiracy

Will you bring yourself again
When I close my eyes
To work the little death
With one who knows something larger is dying?