Everyone’s a serious seventeen.
And so, one night, we married in the woods—
though having to make curfew spoiled the mood.
You wore, of course, a kind of smock.
I was bright as a jester in metres
of daffodil gauze, my metals
dyeing my skin. We had, we knew, it all:
the chalices, the incense, the Lovers’ Tarot deck—
and, nearby, the baptizing rush of river. The air smells
like the mulch of primeval concupiscence! I cried,
and what could you do by agree?