First, brace yourself. The romantic is back,

feet propped, convalescing from the fiction

of an interventionist god. Tough journey.

Long. Oxymoronic lovechild of nature

and art, tell it slant on that red guitar:

that nightingale is not a bird. It's a folio

of Homer, a cashcow on fire. So notch up

your amulet of pain, living hand lanced,

then outstretched, clearance finally given

to the lover, who, outfitted with a conscience,

heretofore dead (how like a god), has just spoken

the world's first sentence, distinct as a hiccup,

in response to the tubercular prognosis: Hello.

O Hyperion, Fanny breathed, this is that new.

Beauty ungovernable, m'lord, because true.

By Virginia Konchan