For One Posing as an Ancient Geek—

                    Messengers arrive by torchlight,
feet of wax they drip into town
like a sacrament onto brass,
slipping on their badges, blushing
bellicose smiles of bruises my
impatience allows, tramples of
tall glasses crackling frosted grass

                    underfoot, bold emissaries
asking windows for warmth they have
never shown, that I have never
felt or known, not since growing so
rotten this fall, send all winds to
this cottage villagers with such
angry sighs have trained their vagrant

                    eyes to ignore, tell them to burn
their opinions, for your twilit
immolations of witnesses
to deny it hurts and burn still
some more…I will pretend at sleep
when they raise their fists to trouble
my door, waking when the noise stops.