There were no earthquakes here; the ground was firm
despite my quivering and jellied knees.
I, stricken by your quick poetic germ,
showed symptoms of a literate disease
and danced as if I took to wearing fleas.
And then you left; the earth began to pitch
just like my knees, as if some loamy itch
gave rocks the urge to scratch and cast aside
the wooly blanket grass with sleepy twitch
and I collapse with every form untried.