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(More syllabic than perfectly metrical...) Far, in both distance and degree, my cousin's consanguinity contains my only hopeful chance for the fleur-de-lis and for France. Far, in both distance and degree, my neutered sexuality merely dreams of the past it had; now dormant, dull, possibly mad. Far, in both distance and degree, my newly found theology questions more than trusts in the Word, since Enosh was first to say “Lord”. Far, in both distance and degree, to not live out my history I pre-transcribed with hopeful breath is nothing but a penciled death.
