I escaped, spinning off
   to heaven knows what
         location, eluding

It might be von Hirsau believed he composed
a celebration, these wood panels brushed
with egg and tempera, a medieval man's rendering

Refugees flee their homes. Exiles
move back in, thirty-year echoes
of mortar shells rattling windows.

It's true: I am a coward. The other night,
at dinner, I neglected to tell you how much
I detest your latest novel. Had you asked me,

The idea of being tried by "A Jury Of One's Peers,"
Which, as we all know, is the pillar & pride of our American
   system of jurisprudence, among others.

Dear Emile, I'm tolerating the tribute
of these flowers in the garden you once planted—
their modulating wits, the conspiratorial

I agree, O heart, that my poetry is not easy to take in.

You see this life is lived
on the premise that it is worth living it.

Even I can see the flowers are up. I take
like wild vine to my bed. And may I have
a word with the miser measuring out my joys.

The doors are closed. I shall not write another!