I have not been followed by
Anything that could flee from me
Driven by my backward glance
Instead, when I follow Orpheus
Approach the threshold of the living world
What I see clings more tightly to me
Swallows me more greedily than any who
Have drunk the broth that I prepare
Few as they have been

They occasion no worry
Being no maenads
And I not mourning my wife
She lives yet, and well
And my hand-plucking is nothing eagerly sought
But they may be dryads
Their trees growing stuntedly twisted
Gnarled in bark and bough from infertile soil
And being watered but little
And that of salty waters

No branch grows straight if tended thus
No bole proud and sturdy
No spirit succored from such sure
And what can wizened whispers thus created do
Save sing discordant hymns in despite of the gardener
No more harmonious than the awkward and halting chords
Fingers find upon the fretless boards
Quiet voices ringing in the silence only
Because they hold so closely to the ear
Clinging desperately where they have held purchase
Drawing darkness after them and with themselves
Underworld brought over and unreleased

The threshold might as well be a wall
Founded so deeply and built so high
It cannot be crossed

I’d still be happy to put my talents to work for you; let me know what all you need written, and we’ll talk!