Blinded Montesquiou

The darkness on the tomb of Montesquiou

And next to it, abated by the sky

Of clouds of white and by the dome of blue,

Is emphasized with dirt and algae by

It and upon it.  Dirtiness is shrill

Upon the grave . . . and not to mention weeds

Would be amiss.  His poetry is frill

Within the realm of arts like diamond beads

He might have worn upon his Dandy chest.

Yet, still, he should not be insulted with

This grubbiness, a man forever dressed

Impeccably in never ending myth.

  The missing eyeballs in his metal face

    Are there to hide from him this last disgrace.

© Phillip Whidden