Photo by Ignacio García on Unsplash

I think about your poetry everyday
Exculpaltory, vitriolic, only occasionally,
displaying a sort of empty cleverness,
rarely fulsome, written to impress a Medici, I guess,
Confessional in part, no better than it should be,
I learn from who exactly makes your grade 
and why, well, that’s a different story.

We all know money is involved
many coins: gold, silver, myrrh
there’s no lack of facilities in Firenze
there’s no longer a trace of your poorer rivals
lost in the balance sheet of history.
out guessing the furies: fienza dolce,
such in credibility leaves me cold.

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