Trinity’s Anchorite in Gentle Agony
James Strachey, lacking goldsmiths’ stunning hair,
Sat by his non-gold fire alone inside
His Cambridge room and felt the flare
Of shrined romance within his ribs. It dyed
His arteries and veins the color of
A soul in paradise while also in
The Seventh Circle of Inferno. Love
Of Strachey’s sort for Rupert looms as sin,
As multicolored as titanium
Transfigured, hot. His paradise is just
As real. Inside James’ blow-torched cranium
He daydreams of the poet’s loving thrust.
Brooke’s snubbing of poor James calls in the Fates.
Noël’s and James’s sex affair awaits.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Mar 15, 2022 | BR, JA, LO, NO, OL, RU, ST, UN |