Horatian Ode
Cooper Esteban

You were under
The olive, Octavia,
Powdering your slave
Boy's boyhood,

While he found with one
Finger the fruity
Bell's-tongue still caught
Between your lips.

Such dark curls to
Expose in this
Well-lit pathway,
Such expensive

Generations of graftings
To make over as
Libation to the ordinary
Grasses of the merest

Grass gods.

1996 © 2003