I almost fell out of love
when I read your Tragedy and discovered your
Belief that poetry was no art.

That’s about the time I understood how
you could
stomach Kant. Your love of Dionysus.
You were
always so strict for someone with such
feeling.
Existing somewhere.
Alone in your dialectic irony.

But those were the early years,
before your father went insane
and you ran from a lifetime, with a
craned neck
only to slam into the shadow of your own Madness
atop that peak,
where you gave birth to millions of
dancing stars.

(Or was it millions of little sheep?)