Thy muses in Satyr's hands - faggots of bruises.
Only thy minds may hang thee on a tight hitch.
Where to refuge? Thy body's veiled by ill-infuses,
But the blue veil knocks, and thy quill turns the latch.
She sees a from-lambent-torch bolter,
But she'll make thee a wise-shelved prophet.
Thou see a from-fame-forbearin' boulder,
But she'll move it to a dream-purloinin' closet.
