Oh waxing moon, your leash upon my neck,
The choking collar tows my scraping flesh
‘cross rocks, as poisoned lungs cannot bedeck
The canvas; grace exempt of all but thresh.
Transfiguration to diseases swill,
Marionette with stringed will imposed:
An ocean! Run and dive to death distill,
And, fire–next to tendrils blue repose.
At twilight’s death, my soul who will control?
Not I, outvoted, kicked from session’s meet.
A mutiny at sea does not console,
For men, still lost, cannot reclaim the beat.
But ointment buried on an island close–
Lycanthropy resisted with a single dose.