To a Woman at the Bar,
Please forgive me, though in time I may
write odes of your chest stones astral earth,
and build temples or write tragedies in bewail of its decay,
From reality, bones and myself can not stray.
So I have no choice but to assume a
recklessness to my own fate in this play,
I must take the role of stranger,
one which in countless runs your part does slay.
But think not yet I’ve been discouraged,
Give you’re shoulder not a turn
If we were bones and parts and guts,
our world an anatomy in gods own way,
I would still yet take the part of poisoned throat,
If a true kisses sweat did proceed the burn.
What of the many actors who, with different scripts
stood on my mark?
I care not if you loved, killed, or what act you did them off,
I know them less than least, but you, our eyes have harked.
And while true, you may take to all men
as if a breeze or public chair,
If my chance was small as pearl,
onward I’d still dare.
I’d each night play part of Mercutio,
with hope jewel finds me and sword finds air.
As now, we are,
I am ship just to you’re shore.
I am a client of the wind,
here by chance with hope and spore.
You’re heart’s flower knows the difference,
but look around at all the score.
Is there a single stranger in this bar
you feel that you know more?
