Classic Poem

You were a sophist,
Pale and quite remote,
As you bade me
Write poems —
Brown poems
Of dark words
And prehistoric rhythms ...
Your pallor stifled my poesy
But I remembered a tapestry
That I would some day weave
Of dim purples and fine reds
And blues
Like night and death —
The keen precision of your words
Wove a silver thread
Through the dusk softness
Of my dream-stuff. . . .