This is called "A Biography."
Poetry cripples.
Tempest fugit.
Have removed from the literary wars
the hand of a gentleman in quill, the blackberry ink mixed
with tears, who sought the ingratitude of his day
as a sculptor clay or an alchemist brass.
Poet or poem, life or art, he cared for his judgments
in their prisons.
He likened himself to a convict.
He lifted his vision to the window.
He dug for the treasures of light.
He entered the solitary's tunnel.
Women he loved he surrendered.
As leaf falls for the love of leaf,
felons he insulted and readers perverted.
In the cave of the senseless, it all fit.
The thin shafts the stars shown down
could not lighten his life at hard labor.