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.