Before:
My friend in grad school loved Wallace Stevens. I do enjoy the way the words feel, and it was a memory of concupiscent curds that brought it to mind for today, but, really. Emperor of Ice Cream = Death, check. Sex is a pale innuendo, faint antidote, check. Still missing something critical.

The Emperor of Ice Cream
Wallace Stevens
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

After: Git
I’ve spent much more of my life with Git than Wallace Stevens. I’m okay with this, but given how much of it I don’t understand, it feels like an equivalent.