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Beta Virgins
in the darling buds of May, they say,
rough winds do blow
through streets that have emptied of shared laughter,
the copper sun setting on a thousand little heads, hearts
demanding auditions.
a thicket of thieves with pointed breasts and angled toes
crashing faceless into each other:
je suis desolée, desolate,
but ce n’est pas bien. c’est tout fini.
elles ont rien. elles sont rien.
what ill fate it is,
to have and to be.
what grows in May except the flowers
and the tohubohu of spring breaking,
the dawn of unlaced fingers touching pavements and hot things
to burn. 
if there is ever rain,
the clouds have outstayed their welcome.