walt.

i've witnessed many men lay down
their pens deemed no mightier than
your beard,
choke on their craft while stroking
the spines of the books that cradle you.

i've read line after line of comparison,
no songs of oneself, but lament--
conquering you means crossing a bridge,
no metaphor, but an actual bridge
that bears your name,
to plunge poetry into the river.

i'll be plain and say you bore me,
but only for interest's sake,
because i too cower at your words,
press them upon my heaving bosom,
hoping to somehow absorb them
or nurse them,
prep them for the modern ear:
no drugs, no sex, no vice
(other than our shared love for young men),
so that they may hear poetry uninfluenced,
poetry pure, poetry untouched, poetry as is.