relax.
not-within me to compose 14 poems
about anyone, but do not test me,
for if there was such a person,
it would be
Timothy
now, not my place to over praise,
for this man hews his own road
among the thickets that separate
humans from each other, and let us
not forget, those thickest thickets
tween a man
and his God
he writes in a style imitative, of
some noteworthy bards, with
whom you might have some
passing Renaissance and Elizabethan
familiarity, the thought of which
attempting to do, frightens me to
my very soul, scored
but what ails me that this-dialogue,
tween an Englishman and a New Yorkah,
who have each a love of the commonality
of tongue, but with a perfume of idiom and
dictionary differentials, that just sweetens
each, my apple pie, and his, pie of,
mince
commenced in 2014, when he wrote to me with
insistence that I not throw in the proverbial
white towel of surrender, for my poetry seemed
to die on the vine, received with lemons and limes,
pleading with firm resistance to not give into
to this
impulse
so here we rest, with many details personal
exchanged, transversed over a great pond
dividing and I permit myself to reveal
but this, he is a much, far better human than
I could even dream of becoming
being
so here we are, 11~12 years on,
and he likes my poems too oft,
calling them better than the daily,
I do not receive the daily, but daily
thank our common God for his existence,
and we share in unison a single word
amen.