Folio 1 of Infant Vanity

Had I renounced myself with the solitue of childhood

At the sage’s age of tale, had I known the frustrated reason

That finds only expression, and lacking divinity, in blood,

I would not serve as an aplause for Pan and his treason

Of winds that glisten, like flames, spears of glass and ice.

The hermit hums the strophe’s so pious to his youth and vice

In a cave, made organic through tunnels, trenches, knowledge,

Smooth pebbles and wasted brands lining our memories pledge,

Archaic to the pulse. Honed, from Hestia’s redemption, like a knee

Genuflecting to our regressive ancestors, the waves of the Sea

Illuminate orchestrated shores (storms are a genre of their own!)

Each mountain-top should melt again, the musical of fresh smoke,

Where the musician is hidden in justice and the ships hull’s bone,

Is lit by the masts of vulnerable intellect. (Bitter retirement) I stoke,

Unfurling visions of the glistening pearls and globe-cut fish

That swim on the crust of my finger, another balanced dish.