How to Judge

To those whose city is taken give glass pockets. To those whose quiver gapes give queens and pace their limbs with flutes, ropes, cups of soft juice. To those whose threshold vacillates give that bruise the dust astonished. To falling heroes give raucous sibyls’ polished knees. To those who sip nectar give teeth. And if they still sip nectar—give green chips of wood. To swimmers give clocks or rank their hearts among new satellites as you would Garbo’s skint lip. To scholars, give dovecotes to virgins, targets. Justice has nothing on them. Virgil, sweetheart, even pretty fops need justice. If they think not let creditors flank them and watch their vigour quickly flag. To exiled brides give tiny knives and beads of mercury then rob them of prudence for prudence is defunct. To those who fist clouds, give powder. And if their sullen wallets flap, give nothing at all. Still I have not addressed lambent fops swathed in honey, the stuttering moon Martyrs, Spartans, Sirens, Mumblers, Pawns Ventriloquists—or your sweet ego The Beloved Ego in the plummy light is you. When I see you in that light I desire all that has been kept from me etcetera. For you. Since your rough shirt reminds me of the first grass pressing my hips and seeds heads fringing the sky and the sky swaying lightly to your scraped breath, since I hear panicked, my sister calling since the gold leaves have all been lost, and you are at least several and variegated I toss this slight thread back The beloved ego on cold marble blurs inscription. Hey Virgil I think your clocked ardour is stuck in the blue vein on my wrist. It stops all judgement