The fourth book by William Frank combines lyrical virtuosity with spiraling imagery to create a moving poem of spectacle, sadness and Grace.
What I cannot a blossom thinks.
My books are ashes in the grate.
I write this carelessly and late
and You have had too much to drink...
...I with punishments have learned
to show my fans, hide my music
though these and this will, too, be burned.
I for that resent Your Eunuchs
who come like shadows deep at dawn
to steal my papers, break my brush
as I wake and so are gone
with the comets of their shush.