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.