there –
but for a word
from Yeats, or Browning,
from Donne or Bukowski,
go i…
small peddler of dull fascinations
inspired by the smiths of old
to fashion some trinket in wire
for Sappho mum or pappa Poe
holding forth with child triumph

i know, i know, i know
the old ink’n gods are drunk and dead
they are but sad measures
in my daddy-issues Heracles’ head
but maybe with seven great feats (or seven great beats)
i might be welcomed home
if only the gate would be left ajar
i might sneak in at night…it would be enough

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