To CS Lewis

Lewis, thou cretinous wretch,

in Christ’s peace might ye rest,

ye heaven-hued brother,

see how mine heart’s form

hath thine verse bothered

—— wherest Hephaestus’ gold-heat

hath now mine mind tempered,

and tampered have ye with mine

molten soul, thou’st poured me into

a peculiar mold, left me to cool, lifted mine form from thy forge and sharpened mine face with thou visage — brother, behold what blade thou hast made! And on thy grindstone, thou namest poetry, which thou wilt not hath endeared as Holy, yet thrice thou hath refined mine edge, here I cut mine fingers upon mine own flesh, and upon mine tempestuous spirit, and sliced hath I, a piece of thy mind, an iota of thy soul is here, oh brother, oh bother, it is here, and strange, and strangling mine. Thus, in death, yea, even from thy grave, thy bear fruit! See what thou hast done! Glory to the King!

Until we are unending poems,

A sword from thy heart