or Post-Profundis

“You made me waste the flower of my life.”
— Oscar Wilde, (Reading Gaol, 1897)

It rains—my birthday, too—and what is love
but weather with a pedigree for coughs?
The panes run down; the gutters learn to move
like gossip shaken from the laurel boughs.
You had a shifting genius for the soul—
that polished sigh, the entrance, and a certain
penchant for the wounded wing. I was foul
enough to call it depth. Now hear the rain:
it needles through the yard; the chapel height
goes vague as doctrine. I shan’t tear
my name to spare your legend—all the weight
fell here; I learned, at least, how best to bear.
Still, if you write, write plainly. I won’t read
the madrigals of scoundrels in their hour of need.

or Pre-Profundis

“Those whom the gods love grow young.”
— Oscar Wilde (Cadogan Hotel, April 5, 1895)

How I hate that unfathomable boy,
who pretended to love me in the guise
of a man! He has robbed me of all joy,
my good name, and my fortune with his lies.
And yet, he was a celestial body
devouring light, bending me to his will:
I was wittingly drawn to the dark rings
of that moon, the circumference of my hell.
Now gilded snakes pervade my dreams; they slip
with cool abandon down my bed to sleep
and brush the trembling reaches of my lips.
Nysaeans—why have you forsaken me?
For Apollo kissed that indolent youth,
then flayed my skin for blowing on a flute.