Blind old John, “The Lady,” scrabbling
Through texts in my mind despite
Knowing you plodded, you gasped, riddled with
The anxiety of influence like
an Infernal jug that gives only drops.
And you needed gulps. In a barren, graying cabin
I see you dictating furiously, words bolting from
A man with the looks, the acrid scents of a beggar.

I liked Mary– She who
Fled you, without blame and spurred
A bitter seed buried within. I could see
You pulling out fear like bloodied angelhair, one thin, shining thread at a time.