Hitchcock's Blondes

The love of beauty makes men cruel.
The self is never sated,
Feasting on fancies and precisions,
And from suffering conjures new worlds.
The lover’s and the strangler’s hands
Work the material into motion,
Torturing sensual pride until it breaks.
Some vital irrelevance will start the hare
And set emotions hunting,
Across tangled country, in hard weather,
Triumph of the English winter.
Shades of dread arraign the hours:
Separation is the hallowed rite
That weds the priest to silent grief.
No friend but the darkness,
He nominates demons and waits
For the next possession, eager
To study its miraculous stigmata.