TO POESY, MY SPOUSE

I raise my quill to hail the muse

and beg for wings that glint with runes.

Walls bleed from pox; wind roars at panes

ice gnaws my bones; a pale wick gasps.

The yew desk groans; rays crown old stabs

as fauns chide gloom and puff on scrolls.

Verse pours rich oil; my dead lamp sighs

A kiss fires coal; oak scent burns mould.