Purity Had Dreams of Murk Last Night

Purity had dreams of murk
last night: her bright white gladness,
feathered faintly yellow-pink,
decided to desert her virtue –
and descend into the drink –
the bilge – beyond the brink of virulence
and toxic spillage: into richly warranted humiliation

and chagrin: she thought she’d find out
what the deal was in the rusting colonnaded tin
of orange oily gunk she saw, uncovered
for the opposite of anyone’s delight or delectation –
frightful smell and texture way past funk:
sickly glistening inside the round jar’s gaping maw:
next to a moldy greenish cloth which she

would not exactly try to use to wipe the ointment off:
for she had fused her fingers and her innocence
by now into the stuff and felt a sucking fit:
and let her senses spin with it –
and secretly she’s stained like sin with it
and now she vows she won’t come out
like sweet young breathy Spring.

However, she woke up:
and can’t recall a thing.

.