At age 25
for Sir John Donne
Down went San Felipe.
Crimson and pale, rippling,
clinging to it's mist.
Oh, how that flagship
hurled itself starboard
into this ventricle.
San Felipe, the sight,
the sight of the loss of you,
Oh, I will never recover.
My heart was never betrothed
to any fine cloth, or gold coin.
Not any jewel or peach loin,
at age 25. I lost them all.
I swam at lengths to reach the horizon
with inherited estate as my compass.
What did I find there?
Several tongues inside my mouth.
Señor Guardián del Gran Sello,
Lord Custode del Gran Sigillo,
Lord Keeper of the Great Seal,
I have returned to England
with my mother's tongue,
full of experience,
but with the sickness of too much travel.
With itchy, rambling bones.
Now my only thoughts,
all of my dictation,
is the guardianship of squaller.
And now the privation of Anne.
This succulent dish,
resting at ease on my silver platter,
but only at a price.
I will serve you willingly, but
I will woefully,
serve up the innards of your status quo.
And gut men of your stature,
like a sheep.
Tickle your toes. . .
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