Poetry Thursday with plague update

"EVEN ORNAMENTS OF SPEECH ARE FORMS OF DECEIT"

It's 1667. Reason is everywhere, saving
for the future, ordering a small glass of wine.
Cause, arm in arm with Effect, strolls by
in sturdy shoes.

Of course, there are those who venture
out under cover of darkness to buy a bag
of metaphors or even some personification
from Italy, primo and uncut.

But for the most part, poets like Roderigo
stroll the boulevards in their normal hats.
When he thinks of his beloved, he opens
his notebook with a flourish.

"Your lips," he writes, "are like
lips."

-Ron Koertge

I'm sure everyone will be glad to know that Saul's spots are healing. He now looks like we abuse him with pencil erasers - little yellow-green and purple bruises all over.