My first attempt at a villanelle. Bill DeVault and I were talking about these at the bookstore last night. I went back there tonight to compose this over a cup of peppermint tea. Bill, this is for you.

Before the tangled throes of Spring would come,
and the rippling mists of eve would rise,
two souls must match the beat of angry drum.

Two bodies drunk upon the season's rum
should spare sweet space between the inner thighs
before the tangled throes of Spring would come.

There are few depths to which their hearts won't plumb.
Before they sever all their fleshy ties,
two souls must match the beat of angry drum.

The rotted bark all trees would bear is numb,
unless the roots attain a brutal size
before the tangled throes of Spring would come.

To reach their sacred goal of rhythmic hum,
while bodies throb and scream immortal highs,
two souls must match the beat of angry drum.

They each must know the worlds where they are from
if each would live within the other's eyes.
Before the tangles throes of Spring would come,
two souls must match the beat of angry drum.