They lift their half-closed eyes out of the grammar.
What is the object of love? You.
Singular. The subject? I.
Aeneas has nothing to say for himself.
Even the boys confess that he
Didn't intend to come back, the girls
Already know the tale by heart.
They wheedle me for tangents, for
Anything not in a book,
Even though it's all from books:
The many-wiled Penelope,
Orpheus struck dumb with hindsight.
I confiscate a note in which
The author writes, "who do you love?"---
An agony pass all correction.
I think, as they wait for the bell,
Blessed are the young for whom
All languages are dead: the girl
Who twines her golden hair, like Circe,
Turning glib boys into swine.
My Improv':
We wring our hands out of the verbs.
What is the subjunctive of Spoleto? Stare,
To be. It's future? Cominceremo. We begin.
Penelope had nothing else but to be his queen.
She began with a handful of pomegranate
seeds, recieved the taste of hell. We preen
my and your body on a balcony in Italy.
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