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Fishing In A Dull Canal On A Winter Evening Round Behind The Gashouse. Where They Toss The Tripe
Your bent fishook is baitless, though you are a master baiter.
Better to face the sad truth now, and now is not sooner but later.
I understand, believe me I do, your shaken perturbation.
You cannot conceive of a love that suffered far too long unspoken;
and now that such love is declared---metaphors---and silence broken,
you deem and despise it as perverse in your vulgar speech's vulgate---
its loveliness is not admitted to your closed mind's dull gate.
Such love was declared by Vergil, never read in your edgy-cation;
praised Horace's poems---longer than bronze or pyramids,
far longer than your attenuated lines' impotent bids
for attention. But even these ancient poems cannot take you aback;
Neanderthal, you are not disturbed by the knowledge you sadly lack.
Now help yourself to the butter, and smear a gob on your tater.
ENVOI:
Your sort deems Ganymede just a satellite--refute me
if you can---and not the Trojan boy of such exquisite beauty.
Starward
Starward
