He was a tall sort of a man
A weathered one, a frayed, and wild,
And measured, but a hearty fastbreaker.
His name I knew. But why had I
Expected the dissembling colour here?
What do you do, you principles,
You moral mariners, when having met
Belial, you find all you ever sought?
What if you swoon before the black K’aaba
And wake in a Palladian garden?
A grey sort of a man, he was
To look at, dark red as you heard
His voice, slow, keeping back the best,
His laugh, disdaining worse.
Cold eyes with warm attention – if
A carnivore, one of our blood,
With fur and cubs and eddying temperature.
He etched, his wife related, their girl hid,
Not his stories, but those about him, wrothe,
Familiars, warnings, dark-quilt bedroom slippers.
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