A Plagiarist

i'd rather die than write another caption

Under the warm and careful sway
of ceaseless fear and fury,
ignoring the cried commandments
of the proud and silent jury

that sits on the other side
of inside the spirit,
and opposite the judge
I ask him, “Can you hear it?

“The lagging eyes, the turning hand,
the well-placed curl, the burning band
that at every twist, ties itself
into the shape of the satin sash

you place upon the pleading welt
raised by every satin lash?”
He hooks his mouth into a frown
then looks me up from down.

The jury, unanimous,
is set in buried stone.
He cannot even see them—
he thinks we are alone.

“No…” which all frees him to say
that I am free to go. Side by side
we’ll walk into the bright of day.
But “Remember the jury!” we say, and lo:

we find, to great surprise, their echoes
in our footsteps. Their faces at the bottom
of the coffee. Over coffee one day, many
mornings later, the judge and I and the waiter

are chatting aimlessly.   [and this part has all
but been lost to that old fortress time]   who
tells an ample lie and when you whine about
where he is going, he only turns and smiles.

…

“Can you recall the verdict?”
He, shameless, shakes his head
and the visions of the jury
are we hope rendered dead.

But he cannot free himself
from the words the jury tore
from the pages I had written,
and write now no more.

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