Amherst is chilly; we shiver and sneeze:
Behold, a poet on his knees!
It's 1990. I am twenty-one.
I drink large draughts of wine to the lees.
You like Public Enemy, I like the Cocteau Twins.
I cherish your voice, a soothing breeze.
You are springtime in December, gentle warmth
Giving life to the shyest leaves of trees.
You are my solace in the midst of woe;
You are healing for all my injuries.
I love you in your fierce disconsolacy,
In the righteous wrath that I cannot appease.
Tom o' Bedlam worships you secretly--
With your jet-black hair and torn dungarees.