To Mr. Frankenstein, upon the Destruction Wreaked by his Work

Sick Victor, sad grad student, what good will one more nervous breakdown do,
really? Buck up your mealy mouth and be frank:

so your project didn't pan out as you expected. Well, you cranked up
this mad merry-go-round and, like it or not, you'll ride it out.

You'll cling to your devil, cleave to his angelic strength,
his graveyard neck good as anywhere to bury your face.

He's all you have left. Nestle close in his arms; he won't throw you off.
Mistakes never do. He'll stay with you, cradle your head in his fearsome hands,

hold back your hair when you can no longer stomach the perpetual spin,
the tinny, hilarious music, the bad choices, each upon each, that led you here.

What's done is done. Don't run. The past can carry you. Be borne
by his untutored strength. Step off the painted edge of this platform:

the machine is suspended in moonlight--rods and sweeps, ring gear,
each improbably saddled unicorn, each manticore and mare.

The forest is black. His eyes are lamps.
Your humility rises beneath you like the sea.