A Lyric

and so it was
that I stared,
more enraptured
by the back of your
head – your hair
has grown,
so like those
coin-caught
emperors –
than by the
incompetence
of Roman
generals;

that combination –
rose-ribboned
high notes,
curlewing truths,
and your profile
all Xenophonic
style –

that coincidence –
phone, Veyne,
and you
the very
picture of
all I’d like to
be;

and so it was
that I flew,
gentian-shy,
fleeing the
centuries
I knew;

no fledgling
was I,
zephyred in
cherub sky,

just a
moon-lost
bird
wing-heavy