My intelligence reports that we are both hiding behind the difficulties of our respective positions taking refuge in complexities of brocade fold, our neck ruffs an excuse for stiffness. Portmanteau hypocrisies in hand, we fake the low tone of compassionate discourse, manners so fine they pop like flashbulbs but the kindnesses they cloak are so inane. My recent cooling of it towards you--an illusion! Gripped in the trap of false sophistication, of semblance and simpers, I conceal my trembling lips behind a scented handkerchief and lacy fall of sleeve, I observe you in mirrors and communicate with you through gossip. The pleasures of a vain and selfish self-regard include the amusements of disguise. In fact you have so many perfections that I cannot be faulted for my wish to see them, for my urge to witness their display, for pausing everything to polish them a little with my sleeve, my servant self attentive to your surfaces. You make me beautiful to myself in repose The worst in me runs to you for punishment You inspire me in ways I shrink from You find me between tumbles from horseback and then beckon from a rearing mount.