Time has a way of gifting its victories, 
like sunlit garden kisses, sweet with finally, finally, 
after an age-long dance of longing. 

Time, make me Virgil. 
See me toil in the soil of words, 
black with the wet of lands that 
shallow hands will never know, ever. 

Key holder, astral pirate, 
bring me Keats bones, 
let me converse with Claudel, 
how she held the plaster, 
made it a throne. 

What of the sewn parts of Shelley? 
Crowley’s coldly unfolding home. 
Where the serpent’s mouth 
comes counter-clockwise 
from the throat of angel-fed poets. 

Time, time, if you love me, show it.