For J. A.

I praise you

for what is not allowed,

not anyhow.

Your name is art and

that shaded horse you rode

accountable to no isle.

You're an Irregular.

Phantom cloaks became your lexicon

then a gloomy romance

or was it one, two, three?

took possession of independent daughters

of a column of sorcerers

who burnt your silver head for machinations

a dish without a stain

white, white, white

your crown.

Stomping beats to an eagle in flight-

Who loves you now?

Mr. No mate, no home, no mane

clink clink

spring has kindled out

those vile words like Medea's

rabid justice of revenge

tossed you into the ocean off Dover

shouting Traitor.