I, the Teuton Templar
May 2, 2014
Courtesy Commends
May 12, 2014

John, you died before
me: eyes cut back in your head—
fitful dreaming, young.

A werewolf at the wake.
and all the while reaping:
all the vanity a curio, as
some possible to open,
some musing mantelpiece,
the starving length of life
by verse to court and marry:
yours, ’til death.

so ’til death it was. sweet and white.

tho somehow you in
curiosities made trinkets
out of mad, oeuvres out of
winks, and for its part,
bemused death you played
for I have heard you singing—

tell me, from the dust and
silken road beyond—
is it so black where dreamers go?
does our genius stem at 20?
do we yet love your
skip and rhyme for not its
truth, nor memory, nor smiles:

but for the thing we have not
been, nor passions known,
nor wisely written ’round—

a werewolf at the wake?

 

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