I’ve never wanted anyone I’ve known
To read the things I’ve written, or to see
How distant from the meritocracy
Of poetry I’ve strayed with all that’s shown
Within these linked persuasions overblown;
These strokes of penitential penury
Inflicted via pseudononymy
To no one, or to each one, all alone.

But yet, I see as silver years approach
And love of words its daily comfort brings,
A link to one of long and distant trace.
And if I could bring her eyes to these things,
To kin, I hope, she would not bring reproach:
To ease the suffering of my Aunt Grace

= = = = =

Singular Sensation