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The poet  hunched, so, whom the worlds admire,
Rising as I came in; greeted me mildly,
Folded again, and our discourse was easy,
While he hid in his skin taut as a wire,
Considerate as grace, a candid pyre
Flaring some midday shore; he took more tea,
I lit his cigarette... once I lit Yeats' as he
Muttered before an Athenaeum fire
The day Dylan had tried to show me drunk
Down to the great man's club. But you laught just now
Letting me out, you bubbled 'Liar' and
Laught...  Well, but thén my breast was empty, monk
Of Yeatsian order: yesterday (truth now)
Flooding blurred Eliot's words sometimes,
     Face not your face, hair not you blonde but iron.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 7:17 AM | Viewed: 1410 times

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