To Caligula, from His Horse (in Sapphics)

All the smug revisionists point it out now;
quick to claim as fallacy a warmth they can’t grasp.
True, our love remained an un-consummated 
partnership. Granted.

Mounting me was still an unbridled pleasure:
Please concede as much as that, won’t you? Don’t you?
Unexpected though it is, haven’t stranger
unions existed?

Can’t you see I’m down-trodden? Can you blame me?
You’re the one that broke me, as you’ll recall. You
claimed yourself as Jupiter, though Poseidon
rightfully owned me.

Dozens through antiquity beamed with beauty
marked by features typified as equine-like.
Haven’t I surpassed the attractiveness of
these in my manner?

Flames of lust will dwindle and die, but ours was
plodding love, authentic and true. It’s sure to
last beyond the lesser alliance that a
romance can offer.

Ars Poetica (in Sapphics)

There’s a chasm splitting the signifier
from the signified. All the linguists agree.
Severed from the tangible, words are almost
meaningless, they’ve said.

Poets play contrarian, tasked with standing
in the gap with arms outstretched to meld a vast
rift, and so erase the sunder between our
symbols and concepts.

Word and meaning wed as one, in the minds of
those who poetry reaches. Both in tandem,
planets align: the music of the spheres in splendid,
perfect harmony.