Admiration of the Virgin

Inventive in your use of tragedy,
I bow to your expressive choice of chance
As explanation of the grim advance
Of glaciers and the sad, thin threnody
I hear behind each word you say to me.
I don't believe in fate, but happenstance
Fails to explain too much. You look askance
In my direction, coolly, savagely.

Your attitude towards me is intense
And negative, but I don't mind a bit.
I don't regard your words as holy writ,
And sometimes you speak just to give offence:
You call me shallow, cunning, small, and dense,
But that's all true. I've got the hang of it.