Classic Poem

bachelor of music,
cum laude,
my shadowy lutenist
plucking
nightshade;
my double
(with the pulse
of a quiet man)
in residence
on the left
side of my soul,
with whom the right side rests
like two pans of a scale
at O;
who radiates
undiminishing in an own phoenix;
have you not put me,
my sweet drone,
my genius,
in touch with Abraham
of my long line?

To borrow the words
of Isaak Walton
when he wrote
of the nightingale,
“Lord, what music hast thou
provided for the saints in heaven!”