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I am jealous of the brave ones

who know well how she smells

the lady of the night,

and can distinguish the subtleties

of anguish, of despair.

While pusillanimous I here

can’t stand to be alone,

unable to discern

a friendship from an implement,

resignation from wait.

When they do it, everyone turns

to marvel at their guile;

they make me want to spit,

what with all of their confidence

such beautiful sculpture.

Outside, a mint plant that won’t thrive,

envious of fast-growing

clover, expanding, choking,

veils its few tender leaves, slowly

withering in the shade.

Once, I tore at the attacker-

a true mint-Messiah-

only to discover

would-be disciples are best kept,

at least some what, in the dark.